Series: The River's Daughter
by Valyssia
Summary: I Will Remember You again and again and again. *Femslash*
1. Introduction

Funny how things can start one place and end up in another. The initial idea was to create a series similar to _On Occasions_ by Mad-Hamlet, Kirayoshi and Shyfox.

This series went into limbo, was resurrected and grew a plot. You'd think that a plot would make it feel more sensey, but this plot has turned the story into a series of seemingly random encounters. Each one reads like an emotional challenge. Show me anger, show me grief, show me confusion…and do that within the confines of a scene involving a sexual encounter.

The first three stories are pretty tame. They have a nice linear progression in Season Four, but from there all bets are off. _More sensitive readers might want to bow out then._

Whedonist , or 1shinyboat as she's known on LiveJournal, and I are working this project as a team. _All of the stories are published here with her blessing._

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**Table of Contents**

* * *

1._** In Blue Moon's Light**_ by Valyssia

2._** Jupiter**_ by Whedonist

3._** Capture Theory**_ by Valyssia

4._** An Effigy to Aphelion**_ by Whedonist

5._** A Keyhole in the Sun**_ by Valyssia

6._** Hesperus in Retrograde**_ by Whedonist

7. _**The Two-Body Problem**_ by Valyssia


	2. In Blue Moon's Light

**Summary:** Buffy expresses her love for Willow...and Oreos.

From the episode _Wild at Heart_:

* * *

**GILES:** _But you've felt that way yourself, and you got through it._

**BUFFY:** _Well, I ran away and went to hell - and then I got through it. I'm kind of hoping Willow won't use me as a model._

**GILES:** _Fair enough._

* * *

From _In Blue Moon's Light_:

* * *

Tempt fate much?

All the damned time. It's a gift.

In my defense, it really wasn't me, it was Giles. He just had to toss that out there.

Yes, Giles, I got through it. Thanks so much for pointing that out.

* * *

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Adult Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 4601.

**Author:** Valyssia.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** I hate these dumb things. Why do we even bother? This is fan fiction, offered in an open forum, freely available to anyone with an Internet connection. I just keep your interest piqued while you await legitimate offerings by the franchise owners like the next comic or that spiffy new movie.

* * *

**In Blue Moon's Light**  
by Valyssia

* * *

Tempt fate much?

All the damned time. It's a gift.

In my defense, it really wasn't me, it was Giles. He just had to toss that out there.

Yes, Giles, I got through it. Thanks so much for pointing that out.

I really don't mean to, but I groan impatiently.

I'm not even sure I believe in fate.

Is that true?

Nah…

_No_, I believe. I just think it's more like this…

Life is sunlight. Sometimes it can be brutally hot. Other times, it's cold and lonely. Fate's like a child with a magnifying glass.

A door swings, clacking shut. Reflexively, I tuck tighter against the tree I'm standing behind. _Hiding_ behind. This is really mature, but—

Footfalls carry, moving away from the house. It's Oz. Strange I can tell that.

I shouldn't be here. Not that I think he'd mind. It might actually be good for him to know that someone's watching out for her. He just doesn't need to see me now. And she needs time alone.

Things are too—

His van door opens. He'd probably smell me any other time. But this time he's clueless.

There's a thud. Something heavy hits the seat. Probably a bag. He's really leaving. The door latch clicks. He starts the engine.

Almost as quickly, he shuts it off. There might be hope.

I have visions of him running back into the house and sweeping her into his arms. Of murmured apologies and tender kisses…

When his door doesn't open, I just feel sillier by the second. Like some naïve little girl.

Well, the Hallmark montage was nice, but—

Hope's a pretty rare thing in our world.

God. I sound so jaded.

When did I—?

I hold in a sigh.

Really, I'm not. Or I don't think I am. It's just been bad lately.

It gets bad again when his van restarts. I listen to him pull away. And there's this nagging need to look. It feels wrong. Like I'm meddling in something I shouldn't. Something private. But this whole thing's like that. I really shouldn't be here. It's just that much worse that a part of me needs to see to make it real.

Like Willow's tears last night weren't real enough. All I could do was listen as she cried herself to sleep. Listen and pretend I wasn't there. Pretend I could really leave like I wanted. Pretend to hold her, like somehow I could protect her. Somehow I had the power to make it better.

Yeah.

That's realistic. I couldn't even make myself get out of bed. All I could manage to do was pretend to be asleep.

Oz's van travels away from me, down the street. I was wrong. I can't watch.

He _really_ is leaving.

Turning away, I slump. The tree's rough bark grates against my back. I barely feel it. My thighs pull up to my chest. I rest my forehead on my knee, hug my folded legs and wait.

I want to be mad at him. I should be mad. But while I'm pretty sure I don't get it all, I think I get it. Two people who are meant to be together. And because something else gets in their way, they can't. If anyone should get that, it's me.

But it's a little different with them. They had something Angel and I couldn't have. Oz's being a werewolf was never an issue until…

Oh God.

He's gotta be terrified.

Giles is right. I remember this. A little too well.

I need to be there for her.

But really, if I'm honest, I need to 'be there' for me. Next time Riley might not be able to cover for me. I can't fail her like that again. If I do, 'next time' might be a non-issue.

Bottom line: I have to know she's safe.

Everything else is negotiable.

The door opens and shuts, this time lots, lots softer. There was an urgency to Oz's departure. This time, everything is so subdued.

Faint.

Almost too faint.

It's like listening to a ghost.

I let my ghost pass. The wait's hard. I want to see her. But I have to let her go. She needs distance and so do I.

When I can't hear her anymore, I stand and follow. It doesn't take me long to realize that I'm stupid. It's a pretty permanent condition with me. I've clued up, gotten over it and moved on.

Rushing to catch up, I play shadow to my ghost.

There's this way people hold themselves when they're either really cold or devastated. It's weird just how similar it is. She's a picture of this.

It's not cold.

Actually, it's a beautiful day. I think that makes it worse.

Trust me, if I could shut the stupid birds up, I would. But I can't stop the world around us. People are gonna talk…and laugh. Kids are gonna play. Cars are gonna pass. Life goes on.

But she's frozen.

The muffled sound of her sobs is enough to set me on edge. I'm right back where I was last night. It's strange what can qualify as torture.

She has to know I'm here, but she makes no sign. As I follow her, it's hard for me to believe that this person is Willow. My brain doesn't want to connect the two things. They don't match.

We're back on campus before she acknowledges me by asking, "Why are you here, Buffy?" I really wish she hadn't. The question just makes me feel like I did intrude. I didn't mean to.

I give her an answer, but not the one she thinks she'll hear. It'd be easy for me to say, 'Because you need me.' And while that's totally true—or I think it is—I offer the more honest answer, "Because I need to be."

Thankfully, she just accepts. This whole thing's hard enough. We must look like some sort of abbreviated funeral procession to the guys playing Frisbee in the quad. It's better not to notice. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground in front of me, giving her space and letting her lead.

As we close in on our dorm, a sense of dread builds. That's how this stuff goes. You get close to the end and the next thing seems that much worse.

I have no clue what I'm gonna do. I know what she'll do. She'll curl up in a ball and cry. That much is simple.

Should I do the same?

Well, without the crying. I just get to be miserable. To feel inadequate. That's always fun.

We both have afternoon classes. Maybe I should go?

Really, the idea of sitting in class has zero appeal. But I guess I could get her assignments and make excuses.

And worry…

No. I shouldn't leave her.

Of course, that just makes me feel stupid again…like I'm coddling her.

I don't know what I should do. I hate feeling like this.

Maybe I should just let her go?

I can't.

We reach the front of Stevenson Hall and this nice guy holds the door for us. He's got that 'rushing to class' look, but he finds time for a simple, kind gesture.

I smile and mouth the words, "Thank you." It's nice to see. This world might just be worth saving.

Jaded again. Go figure.

I'm not even sure what to do about that. I do know I don't like it. It clashes.

She leads us through the hallways and up the stairs. A little too soon for my taste, we're home. Strange that this feels like home, but it does. Or at least it's starting to.

I pull the key from my pocket, unlock the door and usher her inside. We both go to our separate corners. I slip off my shoes, crawl onto my bed…

And like a good friend, I pick up a magazine.

It's the last thing I want.

Really, I should be reading my stupid psych book. If I were able to read, I might. But reading requires the ability to concentrate. Something I just can't do.

I listen to her while I look at the pretty pictures of things I can't afford. I can barely afford the magazine. I sneak a peek at her over the top of the stupid thing. She's curled up with her back to me. Big surprise there. I go back to staring at an Elizabeth Arden perfume ad. Fascinating stuff. Like I'd ever spend that much just to smell like the backseat of Cordy's car. I turn the page.

Y'know, it's funny, sometimes I get a craving for Oreos. Or more accurately 'Oreo.' One's about all I want. Xander used to love that. Now my dorm mates do.

But it's weird, I'm not even sure I like Oreos anymore. Mom used to give them to me as a treat when I was little. So now, I just want one every once in a while. I think it's a comfort thing.

It might be a little less rational than my desire for the perfect pair of Fendi flats. Maybe it's a little more? I don't know. Does it really matter?

I think we're all like that…a jumble of mixy not-so-meshy desires.

Truth is, in the grand scheme, my desire to protect her is arguably lots more rational.

I'd sort of given up on it. Oz protected her. That's how it should be.

But she needs me now.

And I'm pretty sure there's not a damned thing wrong with that.

Startling her or making her think that I'm angry would be bad. I just want her to know that I'm moving. I toss my magazine at the foot of my bed.

She glances over her shoulder as I stand. I go to her bedside and kneel. I don't want to be pushy. But there's a point—

Wanting to distance myself may just be me. My issue. She may actually need this. I'm not sure I would, but I'm not Willow.

Tentatively, I touch her shoulder. When she doesn't shy away, I trace gentle circles on her back. She has to know. It's important to me that she does.

She eventually turns over. Her eyes are all puffy. She studies me. At first, it's almost like she's trying to figure me out. But that fades.

Rising up on my knees, I lean over the bed to hug her. It takes a moment, but she returns the gesture.

There's a sense here. Something underlying. I'm not really sure if she's doing this for me, or I'm doing it for her. Maybe we're doing it for each other. I suppose it doesn't matter. What matters is we do. She clings to me.

What follows is nice. It's been a long time. She motions me up, placing her head on my shoulder. And I hold her.

Well, 'nice' really isn't the right word. Her pain's almost tangible. It's a heavy thing. She weeps quietly. My shirt gets wet. It sticks to me.

But this is familiar. And that's comforting.

I've missed you.

That's probably a horrible thing to think. It's definitely selfish at best.

It's completely natural for people to grow apart. That's how life is. I just never thought it'd happen to us.

* * *

I open my eyes and focus on our window. I'm not sure when it got dark. Not that it's really all that dark, but the light that shines in is muted and cold. The light of a full moon.

She's still in my arms. Her body shudders. It doesn't seem like either of us has moved much. Well, my hand has. It rests on the small of her back.

This gaping hole in my memory, the pasty mouth and the hazy sluggishness all tell me I must've passed out.

Guess I needed it. I hope she got some too. Neither of us slept well last night.

As I turn my head to look at the clock, she draws in a shaky breath. Kind of like a hiccup, only with more hic than up. The sort of sound someone makes when they've just cried too much. I want to hand her a tissue, but getting to one could be fun. I look down at her instead.

She tilts her head up and meets my gaze. There's no study this time, just sorrow. Her watery eyes reflect the pale light.

A piece of me feels guilty. It's annoying as hell. I really shouldn't, but I _actually_ feel a little better.

Well, except for my shoulder. And I kinda need to pee. It hurts. The shoulder, not the other. I'm not sure what's up with that. Could be anything. Might even be this. Awkward passing out usually ends well for me.

Not sure I'd know how to act if there wasn't a little pain. I'm pretty used to it.

Ignoring both, I turn away. I really don't want to get up yet. I'd have to make her move.

The ceiling's always fascinating. Look at all those little holes. I wonder how many there are.

Maybe this is one of the things I was missing? There were so many.

Kinda like all those little holes.

After we graduated, everything changed. I spent my summer playing punching bag to the damned. I don't know what everyone else did. I do know it was lonely.

Like it or not, the 'good fight' doesn't take the summer off.

When school started, things didn't go back. I was foolish to hope they would.

It was still me on one side and everyone else on the other.

Willow was right at home here.

Me?

I couldn't be more out of place with gills and fins.

And the flopping…

Add a hook and that's pretty much my new fall look.

But I really shouldn't think stuff like that. Fate might just get an idea. Nasty little bastard.

I stroke her hair. It's so smooth and soft, soothing to touch. This must be soothing for her too. She takes in a feeble breath, letting it go as a sigh.

Things are so different for you. It's not like Mom had years to save up a college fund for me. She did her best. Most of what was there got eaten by the divorce. And my dad makes too much.

So…

Not much help.

And it's not like he's gonna…

Things are tight. But she really wants this for me. She says it'll be a 'good experience.'

I'm _so_ not sold.

Y'know, I wish I could actually tell you all of this. I couldn't. I still can't. I hinted. That's the best I could do. It felt too much like complaining to say any more. And you were so happy.

I blink. A tear leaks out. It trickles down my right temple as I damn myself for being weak. I won't cry.

This isn't even about me.

I clamp my eyes shut, pressing down to stop the tears. More leak out when I do. They collect in front of my ears. There's this little dip that holds them there. When it gets full, so do my ears. It's kinda gross. Between the pressure and that, I might just scream. Reaching up, I wipe them away before any of that happens.

I draw in a breath to steady myself. Funny, there's nothing steady about it. It's nearly as shaky as hers.

I can almost taste the salt. The air's thick with it. So many tears…

She moves and I do.

Her lips touch mine. I want to pull back, but there's nowhere to go.

She's so gentle.

I don't get it. There's—

I should push her away, but I don't. And I don't know why.

She catches my lower lip and holds it. It's so brief. And it feels so good that when she lets go, I do the same.

The spell doesn't last. One word kills it.

"Why?"

My head's turned and the question's out there before I even have time to consider. I don't know what I'm doing.

And neither does she.

She even admits it. "I don't know." That's the best answer she has.

She sits up and combs her fingers through her hair. They catch. It looks painful. I'm amazed she doesn't pull any out. She won't even look at me now.

As I roll away and stand up, I get a real answer. Or as real as it gets. She mumbles, "Because you looked like you needed it."

My second issue's reaching critical mass. I've been trying to ignore it. The pressure's almost painful. Way past ignoring.

I say, "I'll be right back," and leave the room without bothering to explain. We both need the slack anyway. She should get it.

The hallway light's way too bright. I squint. When my eyes adjust, I head for the restroom.

A big part of me hopes she'll get it figured before I return. We can just forget. Put it behind us. It'll be fine. It was a fluke. Like that's never happened.

There's this other part I do my best to ignore. It's an annoying part. Wanting more is ridiculous. Talk about complicated. My life's never been so complicated.

And that's seriously saying something.

I still don't know what time it is. But it's not that late. Doors are open. There are people in the hall. I paste on a fake smile and return their cheerful greetings. Nice act.

The bathroom door comes as a relief. I really did wait too long. Combine that and the people—not to mention the gluttonous angst buffet—and closing the stall door is one of the high points of my day.

I think I kinda understand bulimia now.

Well, not really. Not so much.

I need a better life.

After taking care of my issue, I hang out just to be alone. Yeah, sitting on the potty shouldn't feel this good. I rest my elbows on my thighs, taking my face in hand. It feels hot. What am I gonna do?

Sad when the first thing that comes to mind is 'wipe.' Uh, yeah…I seriously need a better life.

I wonder if someone would trade. I could pitch the grand destiny angle. It sounds really good on paper.

Nah, I couldn't do that.

Sorta stuck with the one I've got.

The sigh comes as no surprise. But it's not like I made it happen either.

I rub my eyes and do the first thing that came to mind. 'Kay, so…wash my hands, splash my face and get back there. We'll see what happens next. Should be fun.

I do all that in order with one quick pause to look at myself in the mirror. No surprise. I look like shit.

When I get back to the room, she's curled up, sobbing again. I try to catch a glimpse of her face as I shut the door. Nothing doing…

The moment's passed and we're right back where we started.

I just don't know…

I cross the room and flop on my bed. Go figure, the stupid thing creaks in the way that only cheap dorm furniture can. I'd be surprised if the neighbors didn't hear that.

She sure does.

Livid, she turns on me and snarls, "I don't get it, Buffy. Just a few weeks ago you were kissing skanky Parker." I'm on my feet. "But you weren't just kissing him, were you? You let him stick his—"

The doorknob's in my hand. I swear if she says it, I'll be downstairs before—

Standing rigid, I meet her eyes. Lucky for her, she can't finish.

She looks aghast. Like she can't believe she said it.

I want to feel bad for her. And I'm not even sure why. She's the one who's wrong.

She has to understand. There's no way she can't. It's not like it's been years. It was just a few months. Before that we were as close as two people can get without—

She knows me.

She knows why I'm here. I didn't just take this glamorous job for my health. I just couldn't stand the idea of her getting hurt.

I love her. And she knows it.

Yeah, I've never been good at expressing myself. I didn't say it.

Well, actually, I did. Figures, I couldn't say it right. I just had to toss that 'kind of' in there. Nothing like a little soft language to get your point across.

Her face is streaked with fresh tears. I watch more fall as she asks, "Am I—?" She gulps. "Was it really all that awful?"

Oh God…

And…

All of that anger just goes 'poof.' I can't hold on. My hand falls from the doorknob. I hang my head and walk back to my bed.

This is just too horrible for words. How can I possibly tell her that that was the nicest thing that's happened to me in weeks?

I can't—

I try to fake it. "No, actually, not awful…" The whole thing goes as well as expected. I look up and she glares at me. Back peddling, I fill in lamely, "_Really_ not awful."

And the emotional rollercoaster claims another victim. It's okay. I'll take my lumps. But I can't let her get her hopes up.

That's assuming she's together enough to have hopes.

Big assumption.

Confusion isn't just a state anymore. It's a whole country. And Willow's its Commander-In-Chief.

When I interject a bit of reality, her glare sharpens. "But that doesn't make it right." And I find myself tripping all over my tongue again. "Not that there's anything wrong with, uh…I mean, two women together…it's fine. That's fine." This is so much fun. Can I just get someone to punch me in the face instead?

"It's just you and me," I mumble and slump onto my bed. Damned thing creaks, I fumble, "I dunno, Will—" and sigh "—it's just not right."

I can smell the rebound now. Give it a month. We've got issues a plenty without this. Scads of issues here. A plethora of issues. Can we work through those first?

Call it a mistake. At least for now. 'Cause it was. At least for now…

Maybe later.

Oh, I don't know.

Why can't you see that?

But she doesn't see. It's obvious when she asks, "Why does it always have to be about what you want, Buffy? Just this once, why can't it be about me too?"

Meeting her eyes, I ask, "So what exactly do you want, Willow? What are you looking for?" Answering her questions with a redundant question could just be construed as the rudest thing ever. But I'm pretty sure this counts as an exception. Rules are rational.

Well, usually.

Unless governments are involved.

That or crusty old British guys. I'd never think that something like the Cruciamentum sounded even remotely like a good idea.

Who knows? Old guys in general might be the issue.

And they say we're irrational.

Whatever.

I hang my head. My forearms are on my knees and my hands hang between them. I stare at my wrists and wait for an answer. It's a whole lot easier than facing her.

Hell, the _Little Shop of Horrors_ that came out of the Hellmouth was easier. Gianormous, snake-like, demon-mayor…no problem.

Hurt Willow? Uh, yeah…I'll just be over here feeling like a total ass.

The one she gives comes as a complete shock. "I don't know." It's textbook. Color me stunned.

I mumble to my wrists, "And that's why it's wrong."

She knows it's wrong. It's that simple. Now she's just being defensive. That's the only thing this could be. Either that, or she's insane.

I don't even bother to look as she rants, "Buffy, I've been following you around for three years now. Do you think I did that just because?" But this last part is impossible to ignore. Her voice loses its edge. She whispers, "I love you."

I look up.

She's so earnest.

At least we agree on something.

I reply, "I love you too, Will." There's no 'kind of' to it.

It'd be great if I could just leave it. Not me. I just have to add, "But it's not like that." I'm not even sure if that's true. I've had, uh…about zero time to consider it.

And it's not because of the—well, maybe it is. I don't know.

But I never considered Xander either. You guys were my friends. _Are_ my friends. I like to keep those things separate. It's better for the friendship. And God knows I needed friends. I still do.

Huh.

I bite my lip.

I still taste the salt.

She may've really meant that.

And not just in the 'my whole world's falling apart, so I'm gonna reach out to the first warm body' kinda way. Weird…

Y'know, what I said earlier about forgetting? Not gonna happen. It was misguided as hell. But that might've been the sweetest thing ever.

Too bad I can't tell her. She looks so wounded.

Yeah. Go me.

And a splash just won't do. Not when I have this great big bucket of ice water. Why not pour the whole thing?

I stand and do just that. "Look, this isn't just about you. It's about _us_. And I don't think this is what either of us needs right now."

She turns away.

I can't help the simple truth.

The other thing I can't help is running my mouth.

She needs to get what this is about. I start off with more truth. "Right now, what I need is just to know that you're safe." I approach her bed. It hurts that she turned her back on me. I kneel and reach out.

At least she doesn't shrug me off.

I rub her back and whisper, "I want to hold you. I want to say all of those stupid things that people say. Doesn't matter that we both know they're not true. I still want to tell you that it'll be okay. It'll get better." A bitter snicker slips out before I can catch it. She doesn't react at all. I add, "Oh, and my personal favorite, 'you just need time'."

This whole thing's making me crazy. She holds herself. I trace lazy patterns over her shoulders wishing she'd just do something.

Anything.

React at all.

She doesn't. All she has for me now is silent tears and gentle trembling.

I can't stand it.

I hop to my feet and go back to my corner. The stupid bed creaks. I curl up with my back to her and ask, "What I really want to know is how much? How much time do I need?" I raise my voice, growing angrier by the second. "What does it take? When do I get to stop feeling incomplete? Like there's a hole in my chest. Like I can't possibly feel whole again without someone else."

Her bed squeaks. She must've turned. I ignore her and go on. "I really don't get it. I don't see why I can't feel complete all by myself."

I feel her. She's next to my bed. I turn onto my back and meet her eyes. She mouths the words, "I'm so sorry."

"It makes no sense," I whisper. My voice is choked. I clear my throat. God damned tears. "I should be able to have that." She kneels and hugs me. "But I don't. I keep looking for something…something I shouldn't need."

I lift her onto my bed and hold her.

I really don't understand.

I wish I could.

* * *

**Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: **.../s/8156788/2/The_Rivers_Daughter**  
**


	3. Jupiter

**Summary:** As the episode _Something Blue_ winds down, we have another series of scenes that lend to our story. Chronologically they appear between the crypt scene and cookies the following day.

**Author's Note:** The Tori Amos song _Hey Jupiter_ inspired both the flavor and title of the piece. The author wishes to extend a heartfelt thank you and a bow.

**Rating:** Contains Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested

**Word Count:** 4,451.

**Author:** Whedonist aka: 1shinyboat.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned any of these characters, the last three seasons would've made sense.

* * *

**Jupiter  
**by Whedonist

* * *

Everyone stands on the corner of the street, looking everywhere else, looking at everyone else, except me. No one wants to look at me. It's like I don't even exist.

Spike's been carrying on about how he can't get the taste of slayer out of his mouth. And Buffy looks…

She looks betrayed.

I watch, unsure of what to say as I shuffle my feet.

What should I say?

For some reason 'Sorry I nearly got you all killed because I'm depressed' just doesn't cut the mustard.

And who would want to cut mustard anyway? _Why_ would you want to?

That doesn't seem like that'd be all that hard. I don't get it. But I guess I'm not supposed to. It's just a stupid expression.

The point is, I deserve to be flogged. Beaten even. I deserve horrible, terrible-type punishments.

I deserve the pebble that's stuck in my shoe.

I don't even know where I picked it up. It's just another thing. Another ouchy thing to add to an already awful list. It's been digging into my foot since before we got here. I tried to ignore it. I had to. It's not like they were gonna wait on me.

I can't believe I did that!

Not the pebble part. That I can believe. It's just my luck.

Buffy's been swiping at her mouth. She's also been spitting, which isn't something I've seen her do. At least, not much.

'Kay, there have been the one or two…uh, yeah, more like a dozen…one or two _dozen_ occasions when she's inhaled vamp dust. But that's just work hazard stuff. It wasn't 'cause she'd been sucking face with a mortal enemy. And it certainly had nothing to do with me being jealous.

Wait…_jealous_? Really? Me?

I wasn't…

I was.

My shoulders slump even more. If I'm not careful, they're gonna end up sagging all the way to the ground. I look up and I see Anya and Xander making their way down the street. Spike's headed in the opposite direction, the gray blue smoke of his cigarette catching in the lamp light. I still hear him grumbling even as he gets farther away. Funny, he was so important a few hours ago.

Now?

Now everyone's too busy being disappointed in me to care.

Well, everyone except Spike.

I pull my jacket tighter around me and look at Buffy, waiting for her to make a decision, say something or do anything but look like she's looking at me now. I press my lips together. She turns from me and walks towards campus. Silently, I follow.

A tear slides down my cheek. I swipe at it. This needs to stop.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I shuffle behind her like a child in trouble with their mom. We pass the drug store and I stop.

"Buffy," I call out to her. She stops and looks back. Still angry. Still hurt. I can't help but wonder if you can physically shrink from feeling like a horse's patootie. I sure feel smaller than usual.

I nod in the direction of the drug store and she shrugs. "I'm gonna…"

Looking me over, she asks, "Do you…?" I shake my head and she tosses a stake at me. I don't know where she pulled it from, but it sails at me. Gracelessly, I fumble for it and manage a sorta-catch. It's pinned between my left shoulder and my right hand. Go me!

She turns away as I hide the stake in the inside pocket of my jacket. Without a word, she moves away from me.

No "good bye", "be safe", or "see you at home".

There's always a mommish cluck for safety when she leaves us alone at night.

Using the corner of my sleeve, I rub at my eye, catching the tears. I watch as she passes under the street light a few yards away. Her steps falter for a brief second then she stops.

She turns back and opens her mouth. The words die on her lips. She shakes her head. I hear a soft, "Whatever," as she turns, setting off again to disappear around the corner.

Turning towards the drug store, I adjust the stake to keep it from poking into my side. I'm not even sure why I bothered. This isn't exactly my thing. It's hers.

But my thing just made everyone I know miserable, including me.

Maybe I should learn.

I walk the short distance to the drug store and slump onto a bench near the entrance. My hands are all balled up in my pockets. I look up at the florescent light. There are these two moths beating against the yucky, yellowed plastic covering the bulbs.

Commiserating with them, I totally get the action. The only things I've managed to do over the last few weeks are cry. Well, sleep and attend the occasional class. But mostly…just cry.

I hang my head, resting my chin on my chest. Probably not the smartest idea, hanging out at night in Sunnydale, but there's enough foot traffic that I haven't seen any vamps except Spike.

God! Spike!

She was kissing—

No. Let's be honest. She was macking on Spike! She was completely convinced she wanted to marry him.

And y'know, there are lines that just shouldn't be crossed. Or there should be. Kissing him is one thing. But wanting to _marry_ him? That's just…

Of all the stupid, boneheaded, nincompoopish, brain dead, numb skulled, moronic, lame brained…

I sigh.

And they think I'm the smart one? Really?

She'll never forgive me. 'Cause you know, somewhere in that normalcy-craving, white-picket-fence-loving brain of hers, she has to see marriage as another—

It's something I should have. And she'll never have.

What was I thinking?

Okay, so I didn't know the spell actually worked, but—

Giles should take all my spell books.

And my chicken feet too!

Sighing, I shift on the bench. Whoever thought that benches like this were supposed to be comfortable needs—

No, they don't. They need nothing. It's fine.

I'm fine.

I'll be just fine and dandy. I need to stop moping before someone else gets hurt. Really hurt. Not that—

Maybe if I beg Giles, he'll not glare too long.

A chorus of laughter cuts into my pity party. There are two people stumbling down the street. The stumbling's actually a good sign. They may be human. And that's good 'cause they're headed this way.

I take a moment to really look them over. They're pretty far away. I have to squint.

Yeah, they're human. That's okay. I can almost deal with human. Though, walking away is my usual kind of 'dealing.'

Well, when it's possible.

I didn't leave the gang much of a chance to walk away from anything. In fact, the only thing I'm really able to hold onto is that last thing. After D'Hoffryn let me go…Xander and Anya fighting all those demons and Buffy with him. It's like my stupid brain's stuck in a sadistic loop.

My tummy rolls. The nausea's almost too much to bear.

The drunks get louder. I hope that doesn't mean closer. Or bunches closer.

Drunks are usually loud. It's part of their charm. Maybe they're still a block away and just really loud.

I can hope. One thing's sure I'm not gonna look. They might think I'm interested. And their interest is the last thing I need.

Figures, I drove away the one person I really do need.

Ever since that day. That ridiculously awful day, Buffy and I have been on tippy-toes around each other.

She was right. I don't know what I want. But I know she needed that. Or it sure seemed like she needed it.

I needed it. I wanted it.

If I'm honest, I've wanted that for so long…

Inappropriate?

Probably.

Okay, so…_definitely_. But, darn it! She responded.

Then she goes 'no,' then I go and make her suck face with Spike.

Groaning, I bury my face in my hands and shake my head.

Does she honestly think I've stuck around this place because I love to fight monsters?

Okay, I was honest with her about this being the 'good fight' but she has to know it wasn't just about that. I can fight evil anywhere. What I couldn't do and what I can't and will never do is leave her.

I know what that means. I didn't, but last year some stuff clicked. And I just had to go and kiss her.

It was a nice, soft, warm inviting kiss. Perfect.

But my timing…

I kiss her at the worst moment possible.

I snort. Or snuffle. Or snicker. Maybe it's all of the above. Anyway, it's harsh. I laugh at myself for being so foolish.

Pathetic?

Abso-flippin-lutely.

Oh goodie! Bluto and Flounder are nearly here. That or they're getting even louder. Someone needs to teach them some good drinking songs 'cause the fact that they're butchering Hey Jude is more than a little disturbing.

Not as disturbing as me.

Witness: The Great Willow 'I'm an idiot' Rosenberg screwing up not only a great relationship with her boyfriend, but also—just for fun—her relationship with her best girlfriend…who, by the way, she's secretly in love-slash-lust with.

How long did this super-duper stupendous feat take?

One fun-filled day! That's probably a record. I should get a medal.

Yep, fun, fun, fantastical fun…

Pitching back on the bench, my head lightly smacks the stucco building and I wince.

I deserve it.

I look up and notice that my two 'friends' have finally made it to the store. I avoid eye contact, but the one wearing the backwards baseball cap's looking at me.

"Manuel," his words are slurry. I roll my eyes as the non-hat wearer—'Manuel,' I guess—leers in my direction. Hat guy is wearing jeans and a Hollister t-shirt, smacking Manuel on the stomach, he points at me. "Manuel, isn't that that girl you were telling me about?" Manuel's dressed similarly. I wonder if they passed out uniforms when they joined the frat.

Is there a dress code that they don't advertise? Oh, I wonder if they get group discounts at Jerks 'R' Us?

Blearily, Manuel looks at me and says, "Yeah, yeah it is." He leers some more and they both grin the same stupid grin.

I really don't need this.

I move to stand up and the boys stumble my way, forcing me back onto the bench.

Manuel plops down on my left side and his friend takes the right. They reek of stale beer.

Ugh! You guys... Hey, I've got an idea. Poor Amy's been awful lonely…

Of course, if I had a clue what she did to herself, loneliness would be a non-issue. So, I guess you guys are safe.

That's the story of my life. 'Ineffectual girl,' that's me...

"Hi," he says with half-lidded eyes. "Katie, right? You're in my Sociology class." He waggles his eyebrows and blathers on, "Me and Aaron are at this party. Well…" His face scrunches as he tries for a thought between the alcohol-drowned synapses. "We're going back. Need more beer. You wanna come with?"

I roll my eyes again. Stupid boys. Are all college guys this dumb?

Maybe it's boys in general?

I really think it's time for me to go. Maybe if I hurry and I'm really, really lucky, my stuff won't be in the hallway when I get home. I stand and look between the two sitting on the bench. "Goodnight."

"Hey. Hey!" Manuel calls out. "Where are you going?"

I ignore them as I step inside the brightly lit store. There's tons of badness there that I really just don't need.

But part of me wishes they'd follow.

See? Who needs alcohol to make bad life decisions? I manage just fine without the help.

* * *

I find myself fumbling again. This time it's with the doorknob as I juggle the bags in my hands. There's nothing in the hall. I guess that's a good sign.

I finally manage to get the door open, nearly falling inside. I catch myself, catching a glimpse of Buffy in the process. She's sitting on her bed. The window's cracked and an almost cold breeze ruffles the curtains. Her attention diverts from the glow of the TV screen to me.

I close the door with my foot and move to my bed. Setting my purchases down, I turn to her with a small, hopeful smile on my face. I know it's a long shot, but I try for chipper anyhow.

"So…the stop, I picked up stuff." I fidget with my hands for a sec. Stalling. Killing time. May as well. "Stuff for you." When I punctuate by dumping one of the bags, Buffy eyes me curiously.

Forging ahead seems like the best option, so I say, "Uh…I— what with Spike—I thought maybe you could…" I hold up the different types of gum first. Lots of gum. I went a bit overboard. Pretty much every kind of gum I've ever seen her buy. They didn't have Ice Breakers, but whatever.

"And there's this. I think maybe you might wanna start with the mouthwash." I smile brightly and hold up two different bottles of stuff. I didn't know which she liked best. I've seen her use both.

Not both at once, but there's a first time for everything.

I toss them on the bed and pick up the toothpaste, "New toothpaste, 'cause that always helps. And…oh! Oh. I even got you two new toothbrushes and dental floss." I turn around and rummage in the bag to find the other stuff.

Her hand atop mine stops me. I turn my head and look at her. I didn't even hear her get up.

"Will," she smiles, almost brightly. "It's okay."

I slump and immediately start the self-castigation, "No, it most certainly isn't okay, Buffy." I right myself and pull my hand away. "You and Spike. And poor Xander…" A thought strikes me and my eyes go wide. "Giles! There…there was blindness!" I shift from foot to foot wrapping my hands around my waist. "Do we even want to get into how I almost killed my best friends?"

The tears come of their own volition. I don't even bother to wipe them away. "And to make things that much more wacky and special, I do such a good job of creating pain—of causing the people I love grief—that D'Hoffryn offers me a job! He thinks I'd be a 'credit to the vengeance fold'."

"Willow—" Buffy tries to interrupt, but I stop her.

"No. Okay. I'm the bad here. The big evil and bad." I pick up steam. "All of you could have been killed while I sat here with a big ol' mope face and cried. You were…with Spike!"

"Not really needing the reminder, Will," Buffy says.

"I know!" I spin to her and fume, "I could have lived for a very, very long time without that mental picture."

"Hey!" she says, holding up her hands. "It wasn't you making with the…" She sneers and goes for the gum. "But the thing is, Will, I'm not sure you get how wrong that was." She shoves a piece in her mouth, chewing once before tucking it away and laying into me. "Not the wrongness of him and—" she smacks her gum instead of saying the obvious "—the wrongness of you and that spell."

My face falls and the tears pick right back up. It's the one thing I do well after all. She…she…

I see her through fuzzy, magnified, tear-filled eyes and her face scrunches. She runs her hands through her hair and cocks her hip. It's the 'I'm gonna let her have it' stance.

"Will, I didn't—" She stops and her hand drops from her hip. "God! This is just too…" She comes over and rests a hand on my shoulder.

I flinch under the touch and pull away.

"Don't," she says, but doesn't try again. "What I meant was that it wasn't right. You could have gotten a lot of people hurt."

"Don't you think I know that?" I shout.

She flinches and I swipe at my eyes.

"You think I don't know that people could have died while I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself?" I try for angry, but it comes out pathetic. I'm pathetic.

I watch my best friend, my hero deflate. Her shoulders slump and she collapses on the edge of the bed, resting her elbows on her knees. She leans forward and cradles her head in her hands.

What she says is muffled by her hands covering her face. I kneel down, trying to hear.

"What?" I say, gingerly taking her hands away from her face. When she looks back up at me, I see the tracks of old tears and new, fresh drops snake down her cheeks.

"I said—" she swallows thickly "—I know you do, but I can't handle this anymore."

What can't she handle anymore?

She must see my confusion, so she tries to clarify, "I can't handle _this_."She waves a hand between the two of us.

Bile rises in my throat.

My legs give out and I land on my butt. My hands fall limp in my lap. Looking at the carpet, I mumble, "I'm sorry."

Lame and overdone. I can't seem to find any other words.

See, this why the English language just stinks!

A proper lack of synonyms and emphatic declarations that don't come off all overused and dumb sounding.

I'm a mess. I know it. I've pushed her away.

My tummy does this yucky sinking thing. I feel numb, woozy, lightheaded…

* * *

A voice, soft but tense, filters through the haze. It kinda sounds like I have my head buried under my pillow, but there's nothing covering my face. The other details slowly come into focus. I'm on the floor and my tush hurts. It's got this throbby, numb, no circulating thing going on. Sort of like my head.

Choosing to ignore the pain, I focus on the nice stuff. Buffy's caressing my cheek. Slowly, I open my eyes and squint at her worried face. My head's resting in her lap. We're both on the floor. Her back's against my bed while I'm all splayed out with my feet facing the door. She strokes the side of my face, moving my hair from my eyes.

Dumbly, I look up at her. Not sure how we got in this position. But not caring much either, except for the numb, achey parts.

"Welcome back." She smirks and teases, "Passing out while we're talking…it's a little rude."

"Oh," I whisper. So that's how I ended up here.

"At least you just passed out." Her fingers stop their ministrations and instead begin to play lightly with my hair. "What I don't get is why I'm the only one who remains conscious." She puts on this adorable little pout. My act basically. Pursed lips, furrowed brow…the works. I should be jealous. I think she's better at it than me. Cuter at least…

Her pout sours.

Uh-oh.

"You'd think I'd be used to it," she says with a sigh. "But nope. I automatically go for a pulse." From cute to scary in… "How messed up is that? That I automatically think 'dead'." She shakes her head and continues, "But that's not the point now. We need to talk."

She shifts a little, and pulls her free leg up, resting her chin on her knee. "Please try and stay conscious for this, Will. It'd help. Lots even." She looks down at me briefly and then rests her head back on the edge of the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

I'm about to break the not-so-comfortable silence when she sighs and whispers, "Things used to be better—I'm not sure when—but after graduation, something broke and I can't seem to fix it."

Broke? When did the breaking happen? I mean Oz, but…that—

Okay, I'm depressed, not broke.

I meet her confession with silence as I try to understand what she's saying. Oblivious to my confusion, she carries on, "I know we're talking your pain here, but sometimes I think it's all related. You hurt. I hurt when you hurt. I think when I hurt and then more hurt happens."

Her cheeks puff out and deflate in a not quite raspberry that, even under the circumstances, I find endearing.

This might be sweet—the whole 'her hurting when I do' thing—if I didn't have this feeling that she's gone off the deep end.

Where exactly is this coming from?

"It's so lonely," she whispers. "I knew things were gonna change—hoped they wouldn't, but I knew they would. I just didn't know they were going to change this much."

Pushing aside the confusion, I stop and really look at her.

I'm frozen.

There've been…

No, there haven't been _any_ times I've seen my Buffy like this.

Defenseless.

I need to hear more. I hold my breath waiting on her to continue. I'm really not sure if she knows I'm here anymore. I'm not sure if it matters either.

"Some stuff I can totally handle. I can handle everyone splitting up for the summer to do their own things. I can handle patrol. It's a stretch, but I can even handle Professor Walsh."

Her hand lies motionless. I already miss it. I like it when she plays with my hair.

Out of nowhere, she laughs bitterly. It's a foreign sound. It doesn't belong, not coming from her. I wince. "How sad is it that Ms. 'She Alone' can't stand being alone?" She squeezes her eyes and lets the tears slip down her cheeks. Picking up again, she says. "What I can't handle is us. The not-talking to you and Xander. I need you guys. I need _you_. But not the way we've been." She sighs and shifts a little, jostling my head.

Not caring anymore, I take her hand and squeeze. Softly, I offer my own confession, "I need you too, Buffy."

She looks down at me, her lips a thin line. "But you're not here, Will."

I look away, unable to stomach the sadness reflected on her features.

"I know you're going through stuff." She shrugs. "But you've been gone for a while."

I open my mouth to defend myself, but snap it shut just as quickly.

Arguing won't get me anywhere. My silence is a pseudo-concession.

"And then, it's like, I need to help you. I want to. There's all this stuff I want to do. I just don't know how to." Her head falls back against the bed and she groans. "Gah! It's so confusing and it didn't used to be. It used to be simple. Where'd the simple go?"

"I can be better," I offer. It's lame, but it's also the only thing that I have to give now. As I sit up, she turns her head sharply.

Briefly, I see her for everything she is. But it's so fleeting. Too fleeting. I ache to see that again, but—stupid me—I broke the spell by moving.

She shuts down. Shaking her head, she laughs. Again, it's bitter and hard. I've decided that I am emphatically against that coming from her. Her eyes are closed as she stands gracefully. She reaches out to me and opens her eyes, helping me to my feet.

As I rise, our gaze meets and my tummy goes plunging again. She's made a decision. There's a resolve to her that I've come to recognize. As we stand there, me in my clothes from the day and her in her PJs, she takes both of my hands and caresses the tops with the pads of her thumbs.

She smiles and says, "I get that it's hard. You still need time, but—"

After a long, hard look, she drops my hands and finds her train of thought. "Oh…and about tonight…" She turns to my bed so I can't see her face. "I forgive you." She collects the things I bought for her. Her arms full, she faces me and winks. "I will take you up on the goodies. I can still taste the cigarettes and—well, eww…" Making a face, she shudders. "I was _really_ considering the Drain-O in the bathroom. So not a good sign."

She takes the items, puts a few in the bathroom caddy and, before I know it, she's out the door.

And she just ran off to the bathroom, again. Yeah…this is gonna end well.

Standing there, my hands limp at my sides, I try and put two and two together, or maybe I'm trying to put square pegs in round holes, trying to understand what the frilly heck just happened.

Nervously, I look at the door. The last time we were in the middle of a deep and meaningful, she took off to the bathroom. I get the morning needs, but you'd think she could wait two freakin' mintues to talk to me. Or maybe let me talk. When she came back last time, it was like she switched from Sybil to Peggy Ann. I really didn't like what she had to say.

I wonder who it'll be this time? What Buffy will I be getting? Sighing, I run my fingers through my hair. Can this suck anymore?

Wait. Forget I asked.

Turning from the door, I open my closet and quickly change into my PJs. I think about going to brush my teeth. 'Think' being the operative word.

Not the best idea.

The weight of today rests squarely on my shoulders. I don't think missing one brushing will create cavity city. It might be a little gross, but I'll deal. I turn on the bedside lamp and sit on the edge of my bed, waiting for Buffy to return.

A few minutes later, with me sitting on the bed in a deep sulk, she breezes through. She's bouncy even. She offers a small smile. I try to smile back, but I don't think it worked.

I think my smile muscles are broken.

"Buff…" I try to rekindle the conversation.

She stops me by yawning. It's one of those really overdone yawns. Her yawn fills the room. Stretching she shuts the window and says, "Turn out the light when you go to bed."

Uh?

That's it?

She strides to her bed and slides under the covers. Turning her back to me, she says over her shoulder, "G'night, Will."

I sit there like an idiot. I'm still an idiot. A stunned, stupid idiot. She purposefully ignores me. And who wouldn't ignore the village idiot?

I'm really starting to hate that stupid bathroom.

* * *

**Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: **.../s/8156788/3/The_Rivers_Daughter**  
**


	4. Capture Theory

**Summary:** Naughty metaphors and smoochies set between the scenes of _Doomed_.

**Rating:** FRM: Mature Audience: Parents Strongly Cautioned.

**Word Count:** 2,450.

**Author:** Valyssia.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/ Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

**Thanks to: **Tamoline.

* * *

**Capture Theory  
**by Valyssia

* * *

This isn't right.

The fleeting flash of feelings, images and sounds are so convincing I know I've been here before. I see it as clearly and vividly as anything I've ever experienced.

And that's completely absurd.

It was the sort of place that had probably been built back when Formica was considered a revolutionary new space-age material. But that might've lent an impression of charm and nostalgia…of a place time had forgotten. Where I was—a place I'd never been, but somehow now remembered with alarming clarity—had neither.

This was the diner that time _hadn't_ forgotten. In fact, time had paid extra special attention to this little corner of the world, making sure to ravage it but good.

But that didn't give the right impression either. If that had been the case, the front windows would've been boarded up, not streaked with a thin, hazy film of neglect. More than a few people were involved in creating this little slice of hell. Cheap people with dubious tastes bordering on criminal. And other people. People who just didn't care.

Every surface was coated with the same sticky grime as the windows. I didn't have to snoop any further to know that. The odor told me so. The diner smelled, not of good and yummy things, but of stale, scorched hamburger grease and even staler coffee.

I tried the coffee. I mean, how bad could coffee really be? It's pretty basic stuff. That question now lingered in an ever-growing list of things I was too curious to know that I didn't want to know.

It's good I wasn't a cat.

I sat in one of two actual corner booths. That is, booths actually in the corner. There were two others, but in order to have occupied either of them, I would've had to've sat in the center island, conspicuously out in the open with my back to the door. This wasn't the sort of place where I wanted to be noticed, so I sat in the back corner. Still, I stuck out like a sore thumb among the usual clientele of dock workers and truck drivers…the sort of men who believed that a pat on the backside passed for a handshake when addressing a pretty girl.

And so did she.

Umm…

She stuck out…with the sore thumbedness, not the tushy pat part of that.

I was worried for her. I'd never seen her look quite so bad.

Part of it was her uniform. I found it hard to believe that a garment existed that someone who was as beautiful as she was could actually look bad in, but it did. The same atrocious aesthetic sense that had hung orangey-red and turquoise plastic panels randomly among the white ceilings tile overhead, or had painted the lower half of the wall next to me dingy mint-green and the upper half mottled aqua-blue, must've selected the short-sleeved, button-down, white polyester mini-dresses with red gingham collar and cuffs that she and the other waitress had on.

And here I thought she might look cute in red gingham. I stood corrected…if not abjectly mortified.

But it wasn't just the way she was dressed. If it had been, I wouldn't have had so much cause for concern. She looked tired in ways that someone so lovely and young should never be.

My regretfully not-untouched coffee cup sat to my left on the would-be wood table beside a plate of pancakes that remained untouched because of the coffee. A layer of paper napkins separated the backs of my hands from the tacky, textured surface as I held my book. I almost felt bad about using the napkins as a placemat. She'd probably have to scrub the table to get all of the torn scraps to come up when I left.

I shut out the drone of the other patrons' voices, the clatter and scrape of utensils against stoneware plates and thin, metallic sound of the radio, and stared, trying to concentrate on the chintzy, pulp paperback page.

As she approached, carrying a tray full of drinks to the table adjacent to mine, the top line of text, '…so their home base is their sex—their genitals, who they fuck,' made me blush.

But that passage wasn't the only reason I had to feel embarrassed. She pretended not to notice me because I was intruding. And I got this unmistakable, heartbreaking feeling that she'd been pretending that for a long time.

That can't be right. Just like the rest of this, it doesn't fit. I read Rubyfruit Jungle the summer before, between our sophomore and junior years. I picked it up because I was curious. I wanted to know why when she looked at me sometimes—the way she smiled or giggled made me feel weak in the knees.

Weak like they feel right now, only not nearly so—

And falling, but not…

Swooning.

She tilts her head the other way and I follow, mirroring her actions. During the seconds our lips are parted by divergent angles, I sneak in a ragged breath.

Not falling.

Sweet, moist air fills my senses, heavy with the floral scents of her perfume and my shampoo mixed with a faint minty aroma of her breath. She must've been chewing gum before she got here.

And _hey_…wouldja look at that? _Me_ actually pulling off _sneaky_…around her, here, now…like this. That could qualify as a miracle.

Her body crushes against mine, pressing my back against the door to our room. My fluffy terrycloth robe provides a soft, squishy buffer between me and the hard surface. I doubt I'd be standing without her.

Of course, the whole standing problem is _her fault_. Not mine. My knees would still be my knees if her tongue wasn't so bent on making nice with mine.

If she hadn't thrown me against the door and accosted me, I'd be standing pretty, thank you very much.

Not that I'm complaining. She's welcome to create as many of these problems for me as she wants. I'll figure them out…eventually…once my head stops swimming.

'Thrown'?

I'm not really sure it was a 'throw.' It may've been a 'push' or a 'guide.' I don't remember.

She was here when I got back from my shower…all twitchy and weird. I agreed. She has every reason to be upset.

That was it. That's what brought this on. She laced her fingers through my hair. Our lips touched and—

She was tender.

For all I know I was the one who accosted her. This could be my doing.

I was almost to my closet…and she was _so_ tender…like she was grateful for some sense of solidarity.

And then 'poof'…I remembered. I remembered something impossible…and all ten seconds of it…catching sight of her in that greasy spoon…mucked up my perception.

She told me about her time in L.A. She wasn't overly generous with the details, but we _did_ talk. Maybe that was just my screwy, skewy, hyperactive brain playing with the pieces and filling in the gaps.

But why? Why now? Why when she's—?

Why now when she doing things to me with her lips, her tongue, even her teeth…things that make it impossible to think straight or breathe or—uh…?

Er, umm…

Those things she was doing—she's not doing them anymore. Her tongue, just the tip, caresses mine. And her lips…the smushing stops. She's tender again.

Is it over?

But her other hand, the one that's not in my hair—which one would that be—is that her left hand?

Umm…

I have no idea why. I have no idea 'why now.' And I have no idea why she stopped.

Well, not stopped. She's just—

She's smushing again. As her lips smush mine, she breathes out.

Yeah. That's her left hand.

And darn it. I missed it. That was a break to breathe. I was supposed to—

Her left hand rests just below the belt of my robe. She clings to me, like I might try to get away.

Like that thought would ever cross my mind. The way I feel right now, I'd fall and she'd pounce and—

It'd end tragically.

The edge of my tongue scrapes her teeth and I feel it all the way down to the tippy tips of my toes. They curl. It's hard to stand with curled toes. My grip on her tightens. Her shoulder's in my left hand. That one's fine.

The other one's the problem. I cup her cute little hiney—just one cheek—the left one—in my right hand. It's just the right size.

She breaks the kiss to draw in a quivering breath.

I _really_ shouldn't be fondling that. I'm not even sure how my hand got there.

It's a brief break. A break that leaves me dizzy, er…dizzier. I breathe too during the brief break.

She catches me mid-breath. Her lips smash and mush and squish…

My lips are tingly and numb.

I—

I just don't see how we got here.

She eases me away from the door. We twirl and spin.

Well, she twirls. I spin. And stumble. She keeps me on my feet.

The way we move together is something like a waltz, but with one of the dancers too drunk to stand…and the other too graceful and chivalrous to let the sad sack fall.

She stops me just as the edge of my mattress touches the backs of my calves. At least I guess that's it. She hasn't let me come up for air yet.

Easing me onto the bed, she nibbles at my lips.

I tilt my head back as I sit so she can keep up the nibbling. It's almost graceful.

Yay me!

I don't see how she does half of what she does. I'm just glad she does it. The world would be a very different place if she didn't do the things she does.

This isn't quite the same. There's nothing world endy about this kiss. It's a kiss. A long, passionate, beautiful kiss…

It could change _my_ world, but not _the_ world.

She lays me back on my bed without relenting, without looking or feeling around. The only thing she touches is me.

Somehow she just knows.

I don't even know why she's here. I didn't expect her to return. She's been so scarce ever since last time—the time before this when we were—

And I was—

But that time—the other time—that time wasn't like this time. Her hands weren't all gropey. I kissed her and she—

Her radio plays softly. I notice it and focus, trying to pick out the tinny, metered tones.

_Precious Things._ Her sense of humor's showing.

All she wanted was for someone to understand. No one else got that. Giles thought she was being silly. And Riley…he thought that the earthquake was nifty, like a ride at Disneyland. She was scared and they dismissed her. She came to me because of them.

I just wish I knew how we got from there to here. Here with her hand on my tush and her thigh…

Her thigh's kind of—it's in a bad spot—a very good, bad, naughty sort of spot. It hangs down between my legs, trapping my robe between tender bits of me and…parts of her proving balance and motion for this…whatever this is.

Whatever this is it feels _incredible_. I move and she moves, point and counterpoint, each in equal measure. We move together with the rhythm of the kiss. This wonderful, marvelous, breathtaking kiss that doesn't seem to want to end…

Opening and closing, swaying to and fro…undulating like a pond on a blustery day. Ripples course over the surface of the water.

_Through_ the water.

Our lips glide and slip and nip and tease and mash and squeeze and squish…

Eddies churn beneath its surface.

Enchanted by an intricate dance, our tongues flowing over each other, against each other…

Water laps at my shores.

I love her.

Her warmth flows through me, tingly and intoxicating.

It could _not_ end. That's possible. This kiss could never end and that'd be just fine and dandy by me. It might make going to class a little awkward, but I'm willing to give it a whirl.

Oh, but there's eating…and drinking and sleeping and…we'd dehydrate and starve…probably before we went crazy. But there's always intravenous sustenance.

That might be taking it a little too far. Okay, so…it could last forever for now.

I just wish I understood. We should talk. We should figure out what this is and what it actually means.

We should discuss where we want it to go.

Or at least…

I'd like to know how we got here. All I did was agree with her. I told her that the senses can be one of the strongest triggers for memories. And an earthquake, little or not, isn't exactly a subtle trigger. It's hard to miss all those rumbley sounds, the loss of equilibrium, the weird vibratey sensations pulsing through your legs…your body…

Uh…

If simply agreeing with her gets me this every time, I may never disagree with her again.

Well, unless I have to lie. I can't lie to her. But even that—

I could learn. It'd be worth it. _Totally_ worth it.

I may have to learn how to lie.

But it won't.

Or I'm afraid it won't.

I'm afraid this is like a spell. A beautiful, delicate, complicated, fragile spell. I'm afraid if I move or say or do anything, the magic will fizzle away.

My body thrums. A kitty bathed in a pool of sunlight. The trill starts low in my tummy, building, reverberating…spreading out…all warm and wonderful. I wonder if purring feels as good to a kitten as this does to me. The vibrations seem oddly similar. Both sensations convey the same ecstasy.

To purr on a whim…wouldn't that be wonderful?

But when I break the kiss to gasp, she suddenly and inexplicably sobers.

My fears are made manifest.

I try to hold on, but she rolls away, slips free and scrambles from our room.

I follow.

She's just too fast. She sprints out the door and down the hall.

I'm just amazed my legs carry me.

The stairwell door slams closed in my face when I reach it.

I push it open. The same desperation that drove my legs compels my voice. Four simple words emerge, "Buffy, please, wait. I—" Unsure what to say, I choke on the fifth.

What could I possibly have to say?

My words hang in the cramped space of the stairwell, resonating above the pitter-pat of her footfalls. They sound to me like a prayer.

The lower door claps shut.

* * *

**Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: **.../s/8156788/4/The_Rivers_Daughter**  
**


	5. An Effigy to Aphelion

**Summary:** Set mid-season 6, a little bit after the episode Wrecked. Every relationship has a breaking point…how it breaks is contingent upon those involved.

**Author's Note:** A special thank you to Valyssia and Howard, I handed them over a rather discombobulated piece and they took it, ran with it and molded this piece into what it is. Thank you. For the rest of yinz…read, enjoy…

**Rating:** FRAO: Adult Content: Sexual Situations and/ or Explicit Violence.

**Word Count:** 2,694.

**Author:** Whedonist aka: 1shinyboat.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Buffy and Willow don't belong to me or the other writer in this piece. They belong to Joss Whedon and others. We're just using them for a little bit of recreational fun. No harm. No foul.

* * *

**An Effigy to Aphelion  
**by Whedonist

* * *

One minute we're yelling, crying and screaming at each other, and the next—the white heat fades and I'm—

Y'know, there are just some things that—

We're attached at the lips. I should push her away. This is—

I _shouldn't_. This _shouldn't _be—

But she's oxygen and I'm turning blue.

Smothering.

_Drowning. _

I need her that much.

She withdraws, I withdraw, _we_withdraw, just enough. I catch her bottom lip between my own and tug.

It's tender, just the opposite of how I feel. I could reach up and wring her—

I release her lip and she moans into my mouth.

The litany of shit running through my head shuts up…for once.

For _now_.

As she paws at me, a singular thought swirls in the haze, 'Mine. She's mine.'

She needs to know it. Feel it.

I need her.

We kiss. Painful, hungry, aching…

My lips throb. They'll actually hurt later. I always pay later.

For every ounce of need—what I need—I don't need even more.

What I really need is _money_. How could she do this to me? She knows. She understands how bad things are.

More medical bills weren't on my list of _needs_. The mortgage is due. You'd think I run a demonic petting zoo—what with all the—

The broken stuff matches my broken life.

She clings to me, holding on desperately. Like I intend to push her away. Like she could stop me if I did. Through my shirt, four thin, sharp nails bite into the small of my back. The pain is—

I lace my fingers through her hair and pull, exposing her neck. I'm so brain damaged. Instead of wringing it, I nibble.

'Kay, so…more biting, less nibbling. It beats wringing.

More moaning.

She sends a shiver down my spine. My grip tightens. Her blouse tears. I yank. It's gone now.

Shame. It was cute.

But all I care about is showing her. So I do what I'm good at. I play my role to a tee. Who needs to think when need burns through you at the speed of light. Thinking's never been my—pre- or post resurrection—strength. I've always preferred to leave that to the brains of the group. I'm better at punching, kicking, slashing, and—

There's a list. Giles probably has it.

Violence. It's what I do.

There's another list. A long list. The list is no small stress. Add in Will's warped rendition of Adventures in Babysitting. Like she couldn't just—

Dammit! Mom would so kill me for this. _All _of this!

My world—as craptastic as it's been—just exploded into a Fear and Loathing-esque world of color.

I spin and shove.

Willow cries out when she hits the door.

I stop. She's—

This is—

More of the heat wafts away and with it goes the fog. My eyes rake over her half-naked body. Her bra strap hangs. It droops and she's exposed.

What the hell am I doing?

I back away. I don't want to hurt her, not like this.

She comes for me, grabbing my shirt.

A protest forms, but catches in my throat. All the pulling and the groping cement her need. Shaking her head, she reclaims my lips.

She knows how I am and she still wants me. Not the best choice, but—

It's done. I just need to do what I do without killing her. No broken arms, or legs, or…

None except—

Like Dawn doesn't whine enough! This'll make her impossible!

Dammit!

That wasn't very nice.

I clench my fist. My knuckles crack.

Dawn. Thank God she isn't here now, between the yelling and the screaming and the thumping and the—and now this.

This would—

She needs more trauma.

I'm going to have to send her friend a thank you note or something. Of course, I'll have to get the name of the girl tomorrow. I'm stellar parental material. I don't even know where she is.

I sigh and shove. No squeak this time. Just a thud.

Willow now, the rest later. I'll deal later.

I pin Will to the door. I want her. I want to show her. She needs to stop. All this magic stuff. She needs to pull that ginormous head of hers out of her ass and take a look at the clueage littering the ground around her. Preferably before she's buried.

I can show her.

If that's what she wants, I can be a bitch about showing her too. I know the doorknob's digging into her back. Don't care. Hell, maybe it'll help her.

I tear at her skirt. The material's soft and billowy. It's really pretty on her, but it's so totally getting in my way.

I fix it. Attack it. Attack _her _in Mom's old room, in her and Tara's old room.

Now, it's just hers.

I gnash my teeth as she turns out of our lip lock. Her lips look swollen and red. Mine probably look the same, but on her it's stunning.

Will has always been the prettiest. She just never saw it. She never saw what I see.

Surprisingly, she isn't a spectator in this. She opens her mouth to say something. The words on the tip of her tongue are muffled by my lips. There's enough regret and pain in her eyes.

She's broken like me.

Screw talking. My soul's plenty bare enough. I'd like to hold on to the stitch or two that's left. This should be about tactilely goodness. That's the smarter choice. I toss her skirt over my shoulder. It goes someplace. Someplace not here. Maybe the other side of the bed? The roof?

All I really care is it's not in my way.

She pulls away again, leaving my mouth aching and empty. I'm starting to sense a theme.

I'm not a fan of theme night.

Thankfully, we agree. She spares me more recriminations and explanations and starts in on my neck. Her fingers thread through my hair, pressing us together that much more.

Her bra needs to go. I take care of that in one swift motion, squeezing the catch between her shoulders and yanking. She moves her arms to allow it to slip free—the right way, not my way.

The few seconds her lips aren't on me drives me up a wall. Again, she spares me, going back to her original task as soon as the obstacle's gone.

Will tries to shove me back toward the bed. I refuse to budge. Her shoulder looks—

Who knew shoulders could look so tasty? I lean down and bite the skin covering the muscle and bone. The squeak-groan thing she gives tugs the corners of my mouth up. My turn. I ravage the slope of her shoulder. Biting and licking my way back up towards her neck. She's delicious.

Always thought she might be.

I lift her and she wraps her legs around my waist. A sheer strip of damp fabric—her panties—press against the exposed strip of skin on my stomach. It's irritating.

They need to go.

She must sense what's troubling me because she rasps, "Off," against the crook of my neck before going back to sucking on every piece of flesh she can.

I don't leave her much. She has to be creative. Twisting and craning…

It's _really _my turn. She'll get over it.

I don't want to stop working on the mark that I was leaving on her chest, so I don't. I manage. And I don't need to be told twice. I brace us against the doorframe and rip the side seams of her panties. The ragged cloth goes over my head…probably joining the skirt on the roof.

There's a short circuit somewhere between my stomach and brain when Will presses her naked center against me.

I wasn't—

I need—

Mine.

Oops. I think I growled that. Not sure. _Screw it_. Can't care. I leave her neck to duck down and gather her left nipple between my lips. I run my tongue flat against the hard nub before I pinch it between my teeth and flick. She twists and bites down on my shoulder when I start sucking. Knowing her attention's really on what my mouth is doing, I snake my right hand between us.

No warning. Why bother? She wants me. I want her. We agree. I slide three of my fingers easily inside her.

Her hips buck and press down against my intrusion. Will's silky, tight and just this side of heaven.

I clamp my eyes shut when she begins to ride my hand, just feeling. My head falls back, reveling in the way she slips around me, against me, on me. Her arm anchors behind my neck and I find her mouth again. Our tongues meet somewhere in the middle. I win out, thrusting into her mouth. Her teeth scrape along my probing muscle.

I vaguely feel the way the nails on one of her hands digs into my shoulder. The skin beneath scraped. There could be blood.

Hell, yes.

The rhythm she sets is fast, but not hard enough for me. I want her to feel this. When she rises next, I slam into her. My pinky disappears with my other three fingers.

"Yes," she hisses, falling forward to rest against my shoulder. Her forehead sticks to my neck. Both of us are pretty much one slicky mess. Sweat beads and trails down my back, her skin is hot. A sheen of sweat covers her. She tastes amazing. Her center pulses around me. Mine is achy and uncomfortable. I need. Walking may be a bitch.

I'll get there when I get there.

Mixed with the wet needy mass we've become are grunts, a few growls and Willow shaking with tension against me. I don't want this to end. I don't know why. It's not like attacking your best friend and screwing their brains out against their bedroom door is a standard around here.

The usual is the occasional embarrassed 'oops' over a forgotten, unlocked bathroom. Maybe an occasional thought. Wanting her like this—_having_her like this—is mind-blowing insanity.

Yet, right. And good.

The rightness and goodness of it just fries my eggs a bit more.

Like I don't know the 'whys' or 'hows.' I shouldn't know. I just do. And that doesn't make sense. It's senseless that I know if I run my tongue over the shell of her ear, she'll gasp and her muscles will clench against my fingers. Her stomach muscles will tense, driving me deeper inside her. I'm already—

It's crazy how good she feels wrapped around my hand.

I try and she does—everything exactly. Her breath catches in her throat. My hand's gone. I can't feel my pinkie anymore. And my thumb…it's there somewhere. I know it hasn't fallen off. That's enough. I'll get it back eventually.

My wrist is bent at an angle that feels impossible. But that's fine—good even—perfectly perfect—'cause it feels perfectly, impossibly good.

Or like, I know if I were to scrape my teeth down her shoulder, she'll beg for me that much more. And the fact is, is that she's already begging. 'Pleases' fall from her lips in a soft, pained keen that makes me—

A smirk forms against my better—

Uh…

Judgment. What judgment? That went about the time our lips met. It's not like there's anything left to lose.

I slow, holding her—forcing her to stop.

She grunts with displeasure.

I don't leave her any time for questions. I press her harder against the frame and the door. The hand that was holding her bottom gives the firm flesh a final squeeze before snatching a handful of her thick red hair. I pull her head back and force her to look at me.

She hasn't since we—

I've never been one for dirty talk. I guess—well, experience-wise—I've either not been able to or it just seemed wrong. Anyway, it's not my thing.

Now though, with four of my fingers filling her, I need her to—I don't know—acknowledge me, maybe? It barely makes sense, but I _want_it. I need to hear her say the words.

Her eyes flutter open when I give her hair a good tug and ask, "What do you want?"

She whimpers and licks her lips, but says nothing.

I respond with another slight tug. She's going to face me. As her head cranes back, I spread my fingers, stretching her open. And she's gonna answer. "Tell me," I hiss, keeping my eyes locked on her dark green ones.

"I…I…please," she pants and tries to bring our lips together. Her hips start rocking again. She needs to stop. My grip tightens. I push, pinning her, holding her head and stilling her movements.

"Willow," I growl, "tell me." Using our position to my advantage, I rock my hand, grinding her clit with the heel. She bucks against me.

The words tumble out in a low whine, "Make me cum, Buffy. Please, just—" she gulps in a breath "—just fuck me, Buffy, please."

I snicker and wonder how hard she had to work up the nerve to say the word 'fuck'. Not really the point, but making her beg—making her say my name—totally pointy in my book.

It makes this real. I need this to be real for her.

The grip I have on her hair tenses, drawing my hand out of her so that just the tips of my fingers threaten her center. Pulling back on her hair, I slam into her. She yelps and locks down on my fingers. I push through the resistance and focus on finishing her off.

My thumb stretches back to tease her swollen clit. I hold off on direct contact. I circle the nerve bundle instead. I want to hear her once more.

Her neck's exposed, slender, long and delicious looking. I bite down on that nice little bridge of flesh where it and her collarbone meet.

Through the need, I hear a strangled cry. She calls my name. That's my Willow…always knowing what I need.

In usual Buffy fashion, I reward her loyalty with pain. I bite down on her shoulder. Her chest rumbles with a groan. Finally, I give her what she wants. I stop toying with her and press hard against her clit. Grind down on it while my fingers curl forward pumping into her.

Her spasms shake us both. The pressure against my fingers is nearly painful as her hips jerk. The gush of fluid collects in my upturned palm.

Waiting Willow out, I breathe her in. Her shudders slow and finally stop.

The ache in my hips finally registers. Her thighs are beyond vice-like. It's a little surprising that my hand slips free. It's like her body expels me. She's done with me.

Her chest heaves as she rests against the door. I hear her heartbeat. The tempo it hammers is near deafening.

I'm done with her. The thought of her touching me makes me cringe. I don't think I could stand to be touched by anyone right now. The idea makes my skin crawl. I need to go.

She clings, wrapping herself around me as I carry her to the bed. When my shins touch the bed frame, I release her. She tries to latch on—to drag me down—to capture me, but I slip away.

I make it to the door, wordless, soundless. She doesn't say a thing. I don't guess—there's not much left to say anyhow.

I pull the door open with my left hand. The hall light's a little harsh. I stride down the hallway and hit the landing of the steps, bounding down them to head out for patrol.

Right before I step onto the front porch, I look down at my right hand. Her cum is a sticky mess on my fingers. I wipe my hand on my jeans and chalk it up to a casualty of war.

It's not like any of us aren't used to those. Around here they happen all the time.

* * *

**Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: **.../s/8156788/5/The_Rivers_Daughter**  
**


	6. A Keyhole in the Sun

**Summary:** This scene picks up at the end of _Same Time, Same Place_. Strife, fear and guilt yield to compassion and comfort and several seemingly incongruent things mesh.

**Author's Notes:** The quotes are by J. Michael Straczynski and Fred M. Rogers respectively.

**Rating:** FRAO: Adult Content: Sexual Situations and/ or Explicit Violence.

**Word Count:** 9,376.

**Author:** Valyssia.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/ Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**A Keyhole in the Sun**  
by Valyssia

* * *

Her hands rest in mine, warm and soft. I feel her. Not just her hands. _Her_. Perfectly relaxed, she sits cross-legged in front of me on my bed. She's all matchy—her heart rate, her respiration, they're synchronized, slow and steady—super-slow, so slow she might be asleep. She's not. She's just perfect. No surprise.

I'm not. No surprise there either. My mind wanders aimlessly. I can't focus. I'm supposed to. _She's_ supposed to be helping me. That's why she's here.

But my tummy…

My skin's ouchy. What's left of it.

At least the pain's not sharp anymore. There's no clawing or pinching. It just nags and aches and throbs and…

I bear down, scrunching my eyes, my nose. I screw up my whole face.

…Suck-Swilly all the way to Shannon.

That funny, rumbly thing happens to my ears. I like that. It feels weird. A teardrop splashes my ankle, but my eyes were dry, so that was kind of the plan.

I remember the first time she gave me her hand to hold. It made me feel—

I pinch the tip of my tongue between my lips to moisten them. It made me feel a whole lot of things, some of them wrong.

Umm…

Okay, so…lying to myself is just lame. _Most_ of them were _wrong_. I should be used to being mostly wrong. I do it so well.

I was smitten. Even now it's hard to admit that. I couldn't admit it then. I wasn't even sure what it meant. I just followed her around like a—

She was my world.

Thank the Goddess there was Xander. I could blame all the awkwardness on him.

And that she never caught me sneaking peeks at her cleavage. Explaining would've been fun.

I wipe the stupid smirk off of my face and focus on her tiny, little hands…instead of what I should be.

It's not fair. I feel like I'm using her. She's the only reason I'm still upright. I'm so wrung out. If it were up to me…

I try to think happy thoughts. I want to. My mind just won't stay put. It wanders, stumbling, taking shaky yet exuberant steps like a toddler on a playground. Each colorful new thing…

The same colorful thing: my hand. That's what keeps distracting me. Not hers. Not her. She's _not_ the problem.

I need to concentrate on myself, but with her here, I guess it's no surprise that this is where my pricklish conscience goes.

A drop of blood pooled on the back of my hand, just a single drop. It looked so insignificant at the time, sitting there just below my index finger. I thought I'd cleaned all the blood up. I wiped it away. The grass felt warm and tickly.

It's strange I remember that. I remember how it itched a little. I scratched my hand and went back to…

This was awful. The fawn lay dead in front of me. Poor little thing. The clay pot full of its blood rested against my thigh.

I had to do it. Moreover, I had to do it and I had to be convincing. They had to believe that I felt what I was doing was the right thing. I couldn't show a shred of doubt. No weakness. And that's all I felt. I wasn't sure of anything. I was so scared, but I had to act or it was over.

I had to act or admit that she was actually gone.

I had to bury the fawn. I'd dug a grave and consecrated the ground before I—uh…

Not so much 'consecrated' as 'cursed.' There's a teeny difference. I won't lie. Not to myself. Not again. I knew what I was doing.

There was another drop of blood on the back of my hand in same spot. I noticed it when I placed the carcass in the hole. I remember how confused I was. How my brow scrunched. That always feels so funny too. I was a bundle of nerves, yet it still felt funny.

As I finished up, I wiped my hand on the grass again. It couldn't have been the same blood drop, right? It had to be different.

There was no smear. It looked weird. The same. Weirdness and sameness aren't often the same. But this was weird because it was the same, so I touched it. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Smooth, like water and wax—or something between the two—and cold.

_Cold_, but it didn't feel cold against my hand. I couldn't feel it. I couldn't wipe it off either. I couldn't scratch it away, so I went on.

I had to finish. I had too much to do and I had to do it exactly the right way, in the right order, at the right time.

I had to be perfect, just like her.

_Her_, and her perfect little hands. Tiny little hands that aren't so tiny. They aren't that much smaller than mine. I didn't really start to think of them as tiny until I tried to put it all together and found that I couldn't. She killed things—_monsters_—big _scary_ monsters—with her tiny little hands. That didn't make sense.

The blood drop was gone when I got back to the Magic Box. I vaguely recalled my hand feeling chilly. But that didn't seem right, so I chalked it up to stress. I was sure I'd imagined the whole thing. I put it out of my mind and did what had to be done.

I put it out of my mind and search for my center…control my breathing, take control, make myself focus…

This place scares me, but I make myself reach out. I have to be connected for this to work. It's not just about her and me, it's about the earth and Gaia and the Mother and all the goodness that's barely here, pushed away by—

I'm not even sure what. This place feels strange. I guess it always did, but when all you've known is strangeness…

I had to go away to get the strangeness.

The strangeness worries me now, so I avoid it and concentrate on the earth below us. What I find are worms. Not very helpful, but I like worms. Girls shouldn't like worms—or they say we shouldn't—but I do. They're like the foot soldiers of the Goddess, or gardeners, or maybe even custodians.

All the little insects have their place. They till the soil, eat away decaying stuff and leave behind all the green, leafy good stuff.

Well, some of them eat the green leafy good stuff, but there's balance so that's okay.

Before my eyes—in my mind's eye—all the little worms turn to maggots. The dirt goes away. There are bunches of them. Piles and piles. They writhe and wriggle. What's underneath them looks like dried leaves, so I let the maggots stay. Maggots aren't bad. They're gross, but not—

They swarm like squirmy grains of rice, thick in three holes, arranged like the finger holes in a bowling ball only bigger. At the sides brown stuff peeks through.

The pattern crystallizes. It's a face. My stomach lurches. Before I can determine whose face it is, I find something else. _Anything else_.

A flower.

I already know whose face that was. It was hers. The clumps of blonde hair poking up through—

Littering—

And back to my _flower_. Flowers are good. It's beautiful sunny day. The flower isn't a daisy, but it looks a lot like one only much smaller, with delicate white petals surrounding a cluster of orangey anther. I twirl the stem between my fingers, making the little flower spin. When I hold it to my nose, it's doesn't smell like anything. It's only pretty to look at.

I'm back where I started. I picked a flower that day. I shouldn't have. It wasn't part of the ritual, but I couldn't resist. It was so nice outside.

A drop of blood spatters my hand.

My debt is paid. Why do you keep bothering me? Charon has had his tribute, two fold. We're even-Steven, plus one.

Leave me alone!

I'm so rattled that I mix my mythologies. It doesn't matter. The old gods are all the same. Many faces, many names…all to the same end, like members of a club.

Club Death has hundreds of names, perhaps even thousands. No one could list them all. No one would want to.

Death is death.

She cups my sticky cheeks in her pretty little hands. "What's wrong?" she whispers.

I've been crying. I don't even know when I started. I think back. Silent weeping is all I remember. I've been crying for months. A year, two years…more.

My chest aches. Hollow and raw. It matches my stomach. The outside, not the inside.

I hear myself mutter, "Death." My voice sounds strange and choked.

She tries, but I don't let her lift my head. I can't face her.

I feel like a fool when she stammers, "What?"

Why'd I say that? I don't have the strength to answer her. I'm not sure I could explain if even I tried, so I bury my head in the sand.

She was the prettiest woman I'd ever seen. I always secretly thought Cordy was pretty. Bitch. She opened her mouth and made herself ugly.

Buffy just kept getting prettier. She opened her mouth and instead of saying ugly things that made her ugly, she said the sweet things, thoughtful things…

Occasionally dense things, but you can't have everything. The corner of my mouth twitches. Guess that's the closest thing to a smile I've got.

She says, "Will, stop it…_please_," as she strokes my cheeks with her thumbs. Wiping the tears away is pointless, but she tries. I just make more. She pleads, "You're worrying me." I make more and she passes her thumbs across the hollow beneath my eyes so careful, so gentle…

So slippery.

My nose is ookie. I snuffle and reach up to mop it with the back of my hand. It's gross, but it's that or drown.

I'd never killed anything before, nothing inside the natural order, not even a fly. Between the two of us, Xander was the big fly slayer. I picked flowers. That was the sum of my wrath. All I could muster. I felt bad for doing that. They were just so pretty I couldn't resist.

The flower I picked that day—I was so nervous I mangled its stem. I didn't mean to. I just picked and picked until it wasn't pretty anymore.

I clear my throat. Funny, I sound like a frog. I hate frogs. I croak, "You—" My voice breaks. It tickles the back of my throat. I cough. My belly burns. My eyes burn too, but not the same way. More tears roll down my cheeks. I swallow.

With the second 'uh-hum' and more feeble effort, I manage to mumble, "You don't make a deal with Death." I take a breath. It's all trembley. That's broken too. "Death makes a deal with you." They've got that all wrong. All of them. All those old fables are _wrong_.

I expect her to ask, but she doesn't pry. Instead, she kisses my forehead.

I couldn't let go. I will follow you into fire, into storm, into darkness…

It's a misquoted quote from an old science fiction show. I make the question an affirmation. It seems more appropriate that way.

And I leave off the end. I've had enough of death for one night.

I had such a crush on Mira Furlan.

But back then I thought puppy love was actually about puppies.

'Back then'? That sounds so funny. I know it's right, but it sounds weird. 'Back then.'

The face with its maggots and its skin like crumpled leaves occupies my thoughts. My mind's relaxed, so…

Her hair's brown this time. I want it to be red. Dingy fake auburn, like ruined copper reduced to dust by time.

That bullet wasn't meant for Tara. It should've been me. I should've—

But I didn't have to die for them to kill me.

I'm so afraid.

Buffy replies, "I know." Her voice is as gentle as her touch. She guides me to lie against my pillows.

I didn't mean to say that. I shut my eyes. I didn't mean to turn myself invisible either. My brain must be broken.

She gets up. The door shuts with a clack. She mumbled something, but I don't know what.

Guess I messed up.

That's nothing new.

Tears stream freely down my cheeks. I stare at my door through glassy eyes. I'm alone. The reality feels so stark. Every time I need her, she leaves. She can't handle it. She can't stand _me_.

I slump, slide, fall, curling into a ball. Someone draws a knife across my belly. There's no one here, just me, but it feels—

Every movement is excruciating.

And I don't care!

My pillows are wadded up behind me. They force my head into an unnatural angle. I lash out and send them flying.

I don't care!

One pillow remains rumpled against the crown of my head. I reach up to grab it, dragging it across my face, taking my hair with it. I spit strands from my mouth and curl around the pillow, clutching it to my chest.

My body racks. I draw in tremulous breaths, biting at the air. My mouth stretches open. Too far. So far it must be grotesque. Hiccoughing, shaking, sputtering…

The sounds I make are foreign to my ears.

It's so strange. As grief pours from me, its weight is too much to bear. I feel nothing, detached, empty inside. Outside myself. Senses amplified, but not.

Such a juxtaposition of self. I feel everything. I'm aware of _everything._

Sweet, blessed numbness envelopes me. My stupid brain actually shuts up for once. All that's left is pressure…drowning pressure, a weight on my chest and pain in my gut.

My stomach convulses. The skin pulls and pinches. I tense to make it stop. A sharp twinge cuts through me.

Stop!

I need to relax. I focus, trying to calm. The spasms have to stop. I need to relax. It hurts so much. I need to relax. I have to relax.

Stop. Please, stop. I need to relax. I have to relax. I need to relax.

Ow.

The pain gradually eases. I lay flat on my back, though last I knew I was curled up on my side. I sob through gritted teeth.

I'm a mess. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. Slippery, slimy, sloppy, icky, sodden, soaking, sopping…

I'm alone and I'm a mess. I hide my face with my hands. She left me alone. I need her so much.

Fretting, I squeak like a mouse. I'm pathetic, so naïve, so stupid… I expect too much.

She doesn't want me. She can't even stand to be around me. Not unless things are good. She only wants the good stuff. Not the bad. The bad means she might have to—

My little dramas are too insignificant for her to waste her time on. The world won't end because Willow aches.

She only wants me around when there's trouble. Then she needs me lots. That's why I'm here. She's in over her head again. She needs me to fix what she can't. And when she's done with me…

I should've never come back here. I should've said 'no.' I should've put myself first for once.

Soaked with salt and slime, the pillowcase sticks to my face. I'm all cried out. The hollowness is replaced by something else. My face feels hot. I grit my teeth. I burn.

I could rip—

I don't rip anything. I'd have to move for that. Burying my face under my sticky pillow is just better. A good sulk is infinitely more fun.

And productive.

Why couldn't she just leave me alone? I gave her everything I had. I gave her things that weren't mine to give.

It's all so unfair. Boohoo. Woe is me. Blah, blah, blah…

Ol' maggot face makes another appearance. Yeah, like you. It's good know my brain still works. I guilt, therefore I am.

I let out a pitiful, choked laugh that sounds more like a sob.

My god, I'm so dumb. Caskets are sealed. Flies have to lay eggs for there to be maggots.

The maggots disappear.

And if it'd just stopped there, I'd be fine, but I'm so far from fine, I may never know fine again. My big brain fills in all of the missing details. I know how the natural world works. I know it intimately and I see it in all its splendor. Pallid, puffy flesh stretches almost to bursting over a wad of rotten meat.

My stomach reels. I swallow. I know that if I sit up, I'll just—I won't even make it to the trashcan. I take a shallow breath and let it go slowly. And another…

As I force myself to calm, the door opens and closes. A hand touches my shoulder. It's Buffy. She came back.

I'm so stupid. So pathetic. All that fuss, all that grief—an outpouring of angst to rival the masters—or worse, a daytime drama—yet she comes back and my heart flutters. Like a fool, I'm so happy she's here, I punch my pillow down and reach for her hand, drawing it to my mouth to kiss.

She looks down at me. Tiny creases rumple the skin between her eyebrows.

She's right. I'm being weird again. I go for weirder, turning her hand over to kiss the palm. I feel the warmth and marvel. Her hand's beautiful. I inspect her palm through tear-filled eyes, tracing each little crease with my fingertip.

Her fingertips are slightly tougher than the skin around them. And there's a row of pink polka dotty pads on the insides of her knuckles.

I blink, raining teardrops into her upturned palm.

Weepy or not, she'd throttle me for that. She hates her calluses. I remember how much she complained. I know how she worked to keep them down. Considering what she does, her hands are amazing. She takes good care of them and it shows.

But—

Her skin should be thin, waxy and translucent, mottled with a web of inky veins and moist with rot. Or by now…desiccated, fallen away from the bone.

It boggles the mind.

I couldn't do that. I can't even imagine turning back decay like that. I try to fathom it and find myself wanting. The only answer I have is 'magic.' But no magic I understand. I just said the words. I went through the motions. I wasn't even sure how things would turn out. At first I was afraid she was brain damaged…or worse.

She's perfect in every way.

And she's indulging me. That won't last.

_Perfect _in every _physical_ way. The rest of her is—

She's harder and—I don't know—darker maybe? She has this edge that's very un-Buffy.

She might even be a wee bit morbidly obsessed. The sarcasm threatens to make me grin. Just a smidge.

Maybe she's over that.

I can hope.

Her patience runs out. She holds a box of tissues in her other hand. Gently, she reclaims the hand I hold, so she can offer me one.

I take the box. As I mop my face, blow my nose and clean up the mess that is me, she cleans up the other mess, picking up the pillows and stacking them at the head of the bed.

"I didn't know what to do," she says. "You were so upset. I couldn't—I couldn't just come in." She wants my pillow. I give it up. "I went downstairs and put the kettle on for tea." She tucks another pillow behind my head. "Lame, I know, but that was the only thing I could think to do that might help."

I offer her the only thing I have in return, a weak smile…and icky tissues. I'd never offer her those, but she holds her hand out and I don't argue.

She throws them away and leaves again. For the first few moments she's gone I experience the closest thing to peace I've known since I left England. My mind is blank. Placid even.

The door's ajar so she can slip back in. I stare at it. Tara used to do that too. Me, I cheated. A little hocus pocus and closed doors aren't even an issue.

She was right and I was _so _wrong. I used magic frivolously. I knew that whenever something is pushed, it displaces the air around it. If it knocks into something else, that 'something else' is affected too, and usually not in a good way. Point to counterpoint. For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction.

There are laws. I broke them all. And I expected…

Buffy pushes the door open with her shoulder. A breeze wafts across the room. Point to counterpoint, a melody is formed.

Everything is connected.

She hooks the door with her foot and swings it closed. "Dawn's spending the night at Xander's," she says, striding up to the bedside. She places a cup on my nightstand and goes around to deposit the second cup on—I want to think 'hers,' but that's just too presumptuous. She'll stay until I fall asleep.

It's okay. That can be her nightstand, just for now.

She returns to the door. That seems strange. The whole thing. The door's shut. I don't get why she goes back to lock it.

Oh well. She locked the door. The door can be locked. That's fine.

Because things can't just be what they are—there has to be more—everything has to mean something—I'm so distracted that I miss her crossing the room. She's on the bed before I pay her any notice. She places her palm flat on the bed and shifts her weight so deftly I don't feel anything at all.

The bed used to wiggle when Tara did that.

I watch Buffy move, intent on her face, but watching other stuff too. Her breasts hang loose in her bra. There's a triangular gap open between them. I look down the front of her shirt until she gets too close.

I'm _so_ bad. But I'm not so bad that I'd twist to get a better look. I'm sneaky and bad.

She lies down beside me, somehow without jiggling the bed. Her eyes never leave my face. I feel like she's dissecting me with those eyes, gray and blue with little flecks of green.

We lay shoulder-to-shoulder with our heads turned, just watching each other.

I take a breath. My body shudders. I fret, making a bunch of weird little hiccupy sounds like I'm still crying. I'm not. I'm—

The smile she gives me is full of sympathy.

I want to tell her I'm fine. Say it so she'll stop. She'd never believe me. I'm so far from fine.

But I'm fine. This is nice. We haven't done this since—I think back—yeah, that's fair, we were girls the last time we did this. Or at least, we were still in high school. I think that made us _girls_, not that we're all that grown up now.

That feels like such a long time ago, but it's only been a few years. I half expect Joyce to be in the next room reading. She always read before bed. I liked that about her.

I liked a lot of things about her.

Buffy reaches across herself to touch me as she rolls onto her side. She catches a few strands of hair with her fingertips, tucking them behind my ear, caressing my cheek, repeating the motion, stroking my hair again and again…

Really, she's just waiting for me to say something. Wish I knew where to start.

'Liked' isn't right. I _loved_ Joyce. We all loved Joyce.

Strange. I didn't know her that well.

Death is just so unfair. It's horrible. Is it right to think 'loved' when you still feel like there's a hole in your life—this awful hole that—?

More tears. Dammit!

I rub my eyes with my fingertips, upsetting her and stopping the nice—

Buffy was stroking my hair. Now she's sitting up. She pulls her ponytail free, scruffles her scalp and sweeps her hair back, all in one long, fluid motion. Her hair falls between her shoulders as she drops the hair tie and reaches for her tea. She sips at it with her back to me.

It's been a year, almost exactly to the day. That feels like a revelation, but it isn't. It's just a reason.

She's so thin. I wonder if she's been eating.

That's none of my business.

I think back.

It's no wonder I'm falling apart. How much loss are we meant to endure?

Avoiding the obvious—the subject's too tender—it's been almost two years since Joyce died. That one loss was too much to bear. The second was—

And the third—

Buffy twists to put her cup down and just as quick turns to face me. Her movements are so fluid. Stretching out, she lies on her side, propping her head in hand. And again, all without jostling the bed.

I mumble, "It's been a year," as she returns her attention to my hair. I followed her into fire, into storm, into darkness, into death…

She's prettier than Mira Furlan.

I should've kept the snake. It might've eaten Amy.

I'm _so_ bad.

Buffy ignores me. What I said at least. I listen to her breathe. A car comes and goes, passing the house as she pets my hair, waiting.

Waiting for me to explain myself. I can't even think straight. My thoughts are jumbley…all over the place.

I don't know what she expects me to say. What I expect _her_ to say. What's left to say?

Her attention gets old fast. I'm in spotlight. I hate that. I turn away.

That's no better. It's a door. It's a _locked_ door. Yay.

More silence.

And more.

And still more.

So much silence it makes me yearn for something to say. But what is there?

Small talk hardly seems appropriate when there's so much big talk we should do. I just don't know where to start. I sort of hoped she'd ask me what I meant or…well, something.

_Something_ would be nice. Anything would be better than her staring and me avoiding.

_Oh_. I'm the one who's changed. She hasn't changed. We lay shoulder-to-shoulder how long ago? Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. It hasn't been that long. She watched me and I watched her. I was fine with that. But somehow her posture change changed everything.

I'm just being too sensitive.

And she's avoiding this as much as I am. How could she not know what it's been a year since? She's the one who—

I don't want to think about that, but she knows. How could she not know?

Anyway, we should talk about—

"Would you like a drink of tea?" she asks, "I mean, would you like some help?"

Hearing her voice throws me for a loop. She's fine. She sounds fine. She probably doesn't even get that I'm—

I'm the one who's coming unraveled.

_Still_.

Again.

"Yes," I reply. The last thing I want is to move, but maybe something—not me—will break if I just go along.

She rounds the bed and leans over me. "Put your arms around me," she says.

I feel silly. It's not like my stomach muscles were actually hurt, just my skin, but I do what she asks and she lifts me up. All the stress is on my arms, but my skin rolls, sending a twinge through my tummy. I wince. The silly little sucking sound I make stops her cold.

When I say, "It's alright," she keeps going, lifting me upright. I'm fine when I'm upright. I tell her so. It's getting there that hurts.

She reaches around me, collecting and stacking pillows. I try to ignore the fact that she's—

There's more of Buffy in my face than I'm used to. It's fine though. She finishes up and offers me a hand to steady myself with.

I lean back and accept my mug when she passes it to me. Cupping it my hands, I close my eyes and breathe in the steam. The tea smells citrusy. It's nice.

It'd be nicer if she'd just go back to her side of the bed. She's totally weirding me out. She hovers while I sip until I say, "It's okay. Really. I'll be fine."

How many times do I have to say that? It's like she's been possessed by the spirit of Barbara Billingsley or something. Totally creepy.

She returns to her side of the bed. I don't even watch her this time. The only way I know she's settled is when I feel her hand on my shoulder.

I suppress the urge to shrug away. I don't want to be touched. This is all too intense. I'm too intense. The back of my neck's prickly, like the muscles want to draw tight. And there's this annoying knot between my shoulders.

Well, sort of…it's not really a knot, just lots of tension. Every nerve ending feels raw.

I take a breath, trying to take the edges off. It sort of works. Setting my cup aside, I lace my fingers together and make myself say, "I'm sorry." That's the one thing I haven't said. Or I don't think I said it. I don't remember saying it. I thought I was right. I felt justified. _Righteous_ even until—

She says, "Don't worry about it."

She thinks I'm talking about the little flub up today. How could she not know?

We need to talk. Or I could write her a letter like they do with those twelve-step programs. That'd work.

Yeah, that'd be so lame. I'd rather we just talk. We used to be able to talk. We used to talk about everything. I miss that.

'Kay, so… I'm done avoiding. We're gonna have _the talk_. Worst case, I'll make things worse. So, what's worse than completely miserable?

I want to start off with 'you can't imagine…' That's the idiom of choice in these situations. But the truth is she can. I know she can. She just hasn't. So I say, "You don't know what it was like." That's fair.

I think back to that night. None of us could even form a thought, let alone a word, but the sirens were closing in and we were running out of time. They were coming.

"The sun was coming up," I say. My voice sounds thin, hollow… "We couldn't just leave you like that."

I stare at my hands as I remember the procession. It was cold outside. Not really _cold_ cold, but cold, like you're used to eighty degree days and suddenly it's fifty. That kind of cold. I was shivering. Tara held me close as we walked.

"Spike carried you," I whisper in my thin voice. "Giles wanted to, so did Xander, but they both conceded that if anyone could carry you and not show a sign—"

Her hand moves from my shoulder. I yield to the pressure she puts on my cheek, turn my head and she's right there. Again, I didn't feel her move.

She kisses me.

This is more than a little wigsome. I almost pull away, but she's so gentle and sweet. She caresses my bottom lip with hers and it's—

It's too short. It's over so quickly I barely get a chance to—

Was that a 'friend' thing? I know there are people who kiss their friends. I'm not one of them. But I think that might've been. Buffy's just not very cuddly. She's actually just the opposite, especially now, so it feels like this huge thing when it probably isn't.

I blink my eyes open and she's still right in front of me, watching, waiting…whispering, "It's alright, Will, I get it."

I don't think she does, so, as she settles into the crook of my shoulder, I mumble, "We picked the most direct route. There were still lots of shadows, so Spike was fine. But we ended up walking right past one of the fire trucks…all those men, people gathering to help. One of the paramedics even asked if we were alright."

Funny, faint pressure on my chest causes me to look. Buffy's focused on the top button of pajama top. She traces its edges with her index finger, going round and round as I say, "Giles answered with his usual, clipped, 'Yes, quite.' It was all too British. The man gave us a funny look. But Giles sounded pretty convincing."

I think she's just bored. That's okay. It's okay if she fiddles with my button. I'm rubbing her back. It's a mindless thing that I wasn't really aware of until I caught her fidgeting too.

"Spike was the better liar. I know that's hard to imagine," I say. "He said, 'Bit of a kip. That's all. Bird can't hold her liquor.' He sounded fine, amused even. I don't know how he did that."

But I don't understand him at all. One moment he was falling apart and the next—

It was like he put on a mask.

I should've just said that, but I think Buffy's already gotten the skinny on Spike.

"We got back to the Magic Box," I say, letting my eyes drift shut. "Next thing I knew he was gone." I'm exhausted and miserable. I wish I hadn't started this.

It's hard, but I make myself go on, "Giles took over the role of the rational one. After everything that had happened, he was actually able to consider the repercussions. He concluded that with Faith alive another slayer wouldn't be called. He said that we had a choice, we could either go on like nothing was wrong or—" There's a frog in my throat. It catches and I clear it away. "—the Council would take care of that 'troubling detail' for us."

I just let the words flow. "It all happened so quickly I barely had time to react. We pooled our money, bought a coffin and ordered a headstone." I should really think carefully about what I'm saying, but if I do, I probably won't say anything at all. "Xander and Anya scouted a location. Someplace out of the way that wouldn't be noticed. Before I knew it we were all taking turns with a shovel."

I'm finally there. "You hadn't been gone for two days before I was looking at your face again." This is the important part. "We needed the bot. All the bad guys—the demons and vamps—they had to believe that you were still alive. Our lives depended on it. It was my job to fix the bot and to keep her working. I was the only one who could."

I scrunch my eyes and tears seep out, dribbling down my cheeks. It's weird. I don't feel that upset. I don't know why I'm so weepy.

That's stupid too. I know exactly why. I mutter, "Stupid bot with its stupid fake smile. I couldn't even bring myself to touch it at first. I just stared at its face—its stupid, frozen face…_your_ face, but not."

My shirt falls open. Buffy's been playing with my buttons. I missed that. Her hand trails down my chest between my breasts. _Sort of_ missed it…I remember her playing with my buttons. I just don't know when she unbuttoned my buttons.

I open my eyes. The two halves of my shirt lay draped over my breasts. Her head's turned. She looks at the bandage that covers my tummy. Maybe that's what—

Umm…

She turns to me and I forget all about my bandages and the blood she might or might not've been looking at. It's apparent that she was listening. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears. She blinks and they fall.

Leaning in, she kisses me. There's no mistaking her intentions this time. Her tongue parts my lips. It's soft and wet and slippery, yet stiff and hard and rough the way tongues are.

Tongues are strange, but they feel so nice. And they're good for talking. And eating ice cream…

I'm not sure how I should feel, but I guess I must be kind of, sort of, maybe okay with this because I don't pull away, not even reflexively. Instead, I play catch-up and pantomime both at the same time. It's nice. She's so sweet. Her lips play at mine, like teasing, but in a good way. Rubbing, nibbling, caressing…

I still don't know how I feel when it's over, other than sad. I'm sad when her lips go.

The tip of her nose touches mine. "Is this okay?" she asks. Her breath chills my moist lips, yet it feels warm against my cheeks.

"Yes," rolls off of my tongue and past my lips before I even think. I just want her to kiss me again and she does.

She does and it's just as wonderful the second time. Or the third. This is the _third time_ she's kissed me.

The third time is a bunch of times. Tender little smooches. Three, four, five…

I await the sixth, but there's no sixth smoochie. She moves away.

When I open my eyes, she's peeling her shirt over her head. She reaches around and unfastens her bra. It falls.

She's nothing like the bot.

I feel so stupid for thinking that. Of course she isn't.

I've always thought that it was the sum of all those little imperfections that made a person beautiful. A freckle here, a mole there…

I could live without the dimple on her chest above her left breast. A scar from the gunshot wound. Her tummy's scarred too from that vamp—the one that stabbed her with a stake.

It was the last thing I wanted, but I had to. There was a lot I had to do that I didn't want to do. I sure saw more of the bot than I wanted to. She wasn't shy. She was the product of a really smart, really pervy boy's twisted imagination. He wasn't very imaginative. Her body was like something out of Playboy magazine. She was too perfect.

Buffy isn't.

I like that better. The bot was a pretty toy, airbrushed to perfection. Buffy's beautiful.

This time the bed moves. Not much, just a little as she wiggles out of her sweats. She drops them over the edge and settles back into the curve of my shoulder. That's not—

Expectations are funny things. It usually helps if you're not stunned. But whatever this is, it's perfect.

My hand rests on her back. That's just what naturally happened. The way we fit together. I feel the curve of her body. She's so tiny. My thumb rests against her spine. My fingers wrap around her side. She's soft and hard, dense muscle, wrapped in smooth, warm skin. It's that thing again—the contradictions.

We're full of those tonight. This feels like after…like we've already had sex and somehow I missed it. The passion's waning and what's left is tenderness.

As my hand moves down to rest at the top of her hip, she brushes my pajama top out of the way and touches my chest above my breast. She traces lazy patterns on my skin with her fingertips. It's more soothing than sexy. All of this is soothing.

And that's another contradiction.

I could barely stand to touch the bot. That sounds so bad, but even holding her wrist was weird. She looked good at a distance, but her skin had this strange plasticy texture. It wasn't bad, but it just wasn't right.

The differences were subtle, but I was too repulsed to be impressed. I guess I should've been. I should've wondered more about the 'how.' Maybe I should've even marveled. But I was too hung up on how I could feel a wire here or there that was too close to the surface, how parts that should've felt solid were squishy and other parts that should've been soft were hard.

Now, when I have the real thing curled up in my arms, her breasts crushed against the side of my chest, why am I thinking about—?

I may be confused, but I'm not completely hopeless. The contradictions lessen with contact. The way her body feels in my hand stirs all of the right things inside me.

Her hand trails down between my breasts. Just the tips of her pinky and ring finger brush my skin. She lifts her hand when she reaches the bandage.

I should be watching her instead of the ceiling. That might be a good. But when I look all I see is the crown of her head. That, and her hand. She toys with the bow I tied in the drawstring of my pajama pants.

She tilts her head up, meeting my eyes as the bow pulls free. I guess she expects me to say 'no.' I have no desire to stop her.

Her hand slips beneath the waistband of my pajamas, threading under my panties.

I mumble, "It was all just so…" The thought slips away as her fingers comb through my pubic hair.

There's always a certain amount of fumbling to start. That's no different with Buffy. Her hand doesn't dip as low as I expect. She parts my folds and focuses on…

Once her hand's settled, she does the same thing she was doing to my button. I have trouble with the fact that that gesture didn't seem erotic at the time. I missed that. It was—

But Buffy's always been sexy. I guess I just learned to filter.

I rest my head back on my pillows and close my eyes. I'm torn. Part of me wants to roll over and accost her. The other part thinks this feels too good. If I move…

That's not gonna happen. I keep expecting more…more pressure, more motion, but her fingers move in tight, languid circles. All the right chemicals are released. They swish around making me feel—I feel better than I have in—

I don't even remember. And think that's the point. She's in no hurry. I thought she was trying to distracting me. I was sure that she'd—

I lick my lips. They're dry from—well, breathing…lots and lots of breathing.

It's weird. I feel like I should say something. Try to finish. I was telling her about the first few days, the first month…the next month and all the months after until—

That seemed so important at the time.

It's still important. She's turning me into a puddle, but—

I whisper the first thing that comes to mind, "The bot didn't understand why our eyes leaked all the time. She couldn't cry. She couldn't even relate to crying. She thought we were broken. I told her we were, but it wasn't the kind of 'broken' you could just fix."

Buffy shifts positions. Her chin digs into my shoulder.

I open my eyes. She has this—there's a smile on her face, or half of one, just a grin. I'm not even sure—

She looks amused, but her eyes tell a different story.

I feel immediately silly and small. Unbidden, anger flares up inside me, hot and niggling. I don't know how many times I've seen that look in her eyes and wished it was for me. Now that it is—

She says, "I know what you mean." Her smile brightens and turns mischievous. "I'm not a violent person."

Seriously? I cock an eyebrow.

The anger drains away as she insists, "I'm not."

I can't help it. She makes me grin. I'm glad. The last thing I want is to be grumpy.

She tilts her head. Her cheek nestles against my shoulder as her palm presses. Groping fingers inch lower. My stupid pajamas are in the way.

Buffy's nothing if not persistent. She dips into my puddle. My grin turns to a gasp, a sigh…a breath, lots and _lots _of heavy breathing.

She talks over me, "The bot was creepy, ridiculous, exasperating, embarrassing…"

This won't do. Moving's still ouchy, but I sit up. Or I make feeble attempt and move enough to jostle her. "Off, please?" I ask, tugging at the waist band of my jammies.

My current version of 'asking' is more 'demanding.' I'm a mess. A sheepish grin curls my lips, but she doesn't notice.

Her hand slips free. I mourn the loss as she concludes, "But mostly it was just gross."

The loss gets easier cope with when she moves. I watch, engrossed.

As I reach for the headboard to steady myself, she picks up her thought, "I've never wanted to just _break_ anything…" she pulls "…as much I wanted to break that…" I cling, but not too tight. I want her to pull me down a little. "I could've just snapped its—" She peels me like a banana and drops my wadded clothes on the floor. "But in a weird way it was also kind of flattering. Know what I mean?"

I'm supposed to say something. Naked Buffy and mostly naked me and, uh…

She curls up between my legs.

Nervous me.

Nervous _me_ fumbles around for an answer and comes up with something really lame. "Yeah, I guess." No surprise…and no clue what she's—

Some of the fog lifts from my brain as I pull a couple of the pillows from behind me. My naggy, grumpy, ouchy belly actually helps. I have a coherent thought.

I voice it before it goes away, "She just didn't understand."

She pushes my thighs up. My hips tilt back, exposing me. All of me. I'm—

Bu-bye coherent thoughts.

It's obvious she's playing when she trails her index finger from the hood of my clitoris all the way down. It's not long trip.

"It was actually a lot like dealing with a child." It feels strange to admit that now. My timing could be better.

Moving up, Buffy takes the two wrinkled folds of flesh and parts them.

I offer another coherent thought while I can, "A hyperactive, naughty child who was overly eager to please. She didn't really know she was being naughty."

She looks up, meeting my eyes. For a moment, I feel like I said something wrong. Like she might think—

I didn't. I wouldn't. She shouldn't—

I was _with_ Tara. Besides, eww…

A smile brightens Buffy's face. My anxiety gives way to more of her mischief.

She does two things at once. With one hand she reaches behind her head, gathers her hair and twists it into a makeshift ponytail as she dips her head. Her tongue pushes inside me.

I grab for the headboard as she lingers. Her tongue wiggles and I—I make this sound—this incoherent whimper that wants to grow up to be a wail.

Just as fast, she pulls her tongue out, turns a circle with it and pulls all of my folds into her mouth.

I moan. In one deft movement she reduces me to two. My new I.Q. is two. I think I could count to two.

Her touch grows gentle. She massages the skin with her lips, drawing more circles…tiny little circles with her tongue.

I—

My lips slip from hers.

I had a coherent thought. I swear.

She touches me again, tracing a line up and down with two of her fingers. She turns them as they slide up and down again. They slip inside me.

Her mouth closes over me…all those tender bits. She uses her tongue to swirl and swipe the extra flesh away. Drawing one tiny little nibblet tight between her lips, she suckles it. She gives me just enough to make me want more, applying just enough pressure to make me woozy, needy, hopelessly…

There are a lot of 'ees' in my world. It feels wonderful, but it's like she's waiting again. Maybe she's worried that she'll touch me too hard or…?

So instead she's touching me too hardly.

I snicker. Or try. It comes out as kind of grunt, getting lost in all the other sniffles, sighs and groans…all those funny little sounds I'm making, bridged together by frantic panting.

I remember how that was. I was so nervous. I need to give her a couple more minutes to play.

Or try. Though, chewing up my pillow seems like a reasonable option.

My body twitches, trembles, shudders. And I can't feel my toes. My extremities are gone. I have to concentrate to find them. They're still there, but they're being shy.

I'm a mess. A slippery, sloppy, sodden, soaking, sopping _mess_.

The similarities seem so strange. Intense outpourings of emotion. I'm fretting. The ache in my chest is gone, replaced by an airy swelling, but my head feels the same, like a shaken soda set out in the sun. The pressure makes it numb, frothy, fuzzy, muzzy…

My fuzzy wuzzy brain with its new I.Q. of two wants to draw parallels.

'Let's think of something to do while we're waiting, while we're waiting for something new to do.'

The back of my head digs into the mattress. My pillow's wadded up above it. I bat the silly thing away.

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. Drawing rivulets down my temples, they trickle toward my ears.

One hard pinch and a thump and this'd be over. The soda would explode. But she's not gonna do that—not now—and my pillow's looking yummier by the second.

I reach down to touch her shoulder. When she doesn't respond, I take hold.

She looks up and I pull, urging her to join me. She wears that expression…that pitiful, depressing, 'was I doing something wrong' pout. Combined with the glint of wetness, it's—umm, well…it's kinda hot, but—

I need to fix this and quickly. Buffy and crestfallen are about as meshy as Bush and President. Both carry a high potential for disastrous results.

Drink first. I twist as she moves and reach for my tea. Her hand slips free. She rests propped on her left arm beside me and lets me have a drink. My tea's warm now, not hot, so I down half the cup in a few quick gulps. Honey and tart, citrusy goodness flow past my parched lips. It's nice. I may have a voice. I may even be able to find it.

Setting the cup aside, I take her right hand in mine. It's sticky, like her face. I say, "You have beautiful little hands, sweetie." I hope that she gets that the operative word is 'little.' That's about as tactful as I can be.

As I pull the rings from her fingers, she says, "Sorry." She must think she hurt me.

"No, don't be," I reply. "You're fine." I place her rings on the nightstand and kiss her sticky little fingers.

She seems to like it when draw them into my mouth. But who doesn't? I drag my teeth over her fingertips, lingering to enjoy the sounds she makes. I could just keep going. Explore all of those delectable little Buffy bits. I want her so badly I ache.

I curl her thumb and pinky together and say, "We're good Girl Scouts here." I grin. "Well, I'm not. My mom wouldn't let me, Jewish and all. I got the full spiel about how I didn't want to be a part of such a sexist organization."

She smiles.

When I release her hand, she tries to wipe her chin, but I stop her.

"Kiss me," I whisper. I want her to understand that there's nothing about this I don't enjoy. I guide her on top of me. She rests her arm between us. As our lips meet, her fingers push inside me. My back arches. I grab on to the first thing…her poor little tushy takes the brunt of—

My body malfunctions. It bucks and jerks and shakes. Most of that just buries her fingers. It's like my body's version of 'more.'

It feels wonderful, but convulsions and kisses don't really mix. I lose something. I fix that.

Her lips are slippery and wet, sweet and salty. The sweetness is probably her. Or me. I did have honey in my tea. I linger, just enjoying how her lips feel before moving to kiss her chin. She inclines her head. The sweetness fades, turning salty as I lick and kiss and suck my way down her left jaw line.

The pace she sets is firmer, but still slow. It feels good, but when she tilts her chin to reclaim my lips, I murmur, "Show me what you like." I want to come off all smooth and sexy. I should know better. My voice cracks and 'poof' I'm a thirteen-year-old boy. Or I sound like one.

She stammers, "I, umm…" and falls short. Maybe she's befuddled by my impression?

"It's okay," I reply. I get it. This is one of the things that always intrigued me about her, even without the status reports from her various beaus.

She's still reluctant, so I encourage her, using her bottom to guide her.

I love the way her body feels against mine.

Her kiss is harder this time. She pushes her tongue into my mouth.

My muscles tense, strain, quiver…

Each stroke is a little sharper than the last. As it builds, I fall apart and she moves away.

That's good in a bad sort of way. I was suffocating, but—

Lifting up, moving down…she kisses my throat, my chest. When she reaches my breasts, I go for the headboard.

Her mouth closes over my nipple. She ticks a rhythm with her tongue, counter to the rhythm of her hand. Tick, tock, tick, tock…

I cling.

My I.Q. plummets, reaching dangerously low levels. The proterozoic life forms that first wriggled out of the primordial ooze were probably brighter than I am right now.

Fighting for breath like I'm drowning, I murmur stupid things like, "Harder." The angle of her hand changed when she moved. More leverage. More thrust. She's not exactly being gentle, but stupid me, I want, "More."

No clue what that's about. Between her knuckles and her nails, this is a little too intense already.

She answers by adding another finger. Where she finds it is anyone's guess. I always lose my pinky, just like I've lost my toes.

No, they're still there, curled tight in a ball. I stretch them to avoid potential badness.

She settles in, finds a rhythm and figures out that thing with the edge of her thumb. That thing with the edge of her thumb is—

I'd be impressed, but I'm a little too busy with being systematically reduced to—

Uh…

I'm not even sure what.

I shift my hips, playing, trying to find just the right—and when I do—

Poofy lights and fluffy clouds fill my head. I warble something nonsensical that I immediately forget—I hope it wasn't too silly—and yeses, lots and lots of yeses.

My body does all sorts of funny twitchy, tensey stuff that by all rights should hurt, at least because of my tummy. Hurt is the last thing I feel.

Buffy's head lies between my breasts. She clings to me, holds me down, keeps me from floating away…

Jeez…us, _oh_…Anu, Nanna, Tefnut, Gurnenthar, Andhrímnir, Óttar, Madison, Rán…

I'm an equal opportunity blasphemer.

Stillness comes.

Sometimes I wonder why this is so addictive. It's a bit like being concussed without the splitting headache after.

But it feels _so_ good.

Her pretty little hand flops onto the bed above her head as she rolls onto her back beside me. I miss it already.

She's winded too. I'm truly impressed now.

I turn my head to meet her eyes. She looks peaceful, contented, relaxed…

These moments are a gift.

* * *

**Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: **.../s/8156788/6/The_Rivers_Daughter**  
**


	7. Hesperus in Retrograde

**Summary:** After the final battle…

**Author's Note: **This is the 6th piece in a series of one shots co-authored by Valyssia. This piece is set after the series finales before Season 8 comics, in fact my head canon states that the S8 comics never happened. My head canon is a nicer place with more continuity and better character arcs.

So before I go off on a long tangent, I just wanted to say thanks to Howard and Valyssia for whipping this puppy into shape and to those of you that read, thanks!

Oh, yeah, there's a scotch bit of plot, but mostly…it's smut…you're welcome.

**Rating:** FRAO: Adult Content: Sexual Situations and/ or Explicit Violence.

**Word Count:** 6,594.

******Author:** Whedonist aka: 1shinyboat.

******Beta:** Howard Russell.**  
**

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** They're not ours. We're mucking about in Joss' and others' sandbox for fun.

* * *

**Hesperus in Retrograde****  
**by Whedonist

* * *

They're up to something. Why else would they hike all the way down here to find me?

Moments later, Xander's whisper carries on the breeze. I catch just enough to make out that I'm not wrong. He's plotting an overthrow.

Er, more like an 'overboard.'

I don't think he knows my hearing's that good. Casually, I lift my leg up and position my foot flat on the dock. I hug my thigh, which carries the added bonus of making me look that much more broody.

Will tries to talk him out of it. "Xander, don't tempt her, please?"

Maybe if I ignore them, they'll just go away.

Nah, that'd be too easy. They want something.

They should know I'm done giving.

We've danced around wiping our slates clean, but seeing as how most of us only did what we felt we had to to survive, there isn't much genuine remorse to go around. What we're sorry for…

I know that about as much as I know what our next moves are going to be.

Whatever they expect from me, they should know I'm done. I've got nothing left.

The lake's more interesting. It laps at the supports of the dock I've been sitting on for the better part of an hour. At least it's pretty here. Very picturesque in that 'you wouldn't believe it exists' type way. Keanu didn't even get this nice of a view. The regroup location is better than some of the others that we could have chosen. L.A. was a big 'not in this lifetime.'

Dropping my other leg over the edge, I let it dangle above the water's choppy surface.

Two weeks, give or take, after making our home a landfill and we've managed to make it only fifty miles southeast, outside this little, quaint, 'never seen a vamp in the history of its establishment' town called Solvang. They're big on food and windmills here. The people are a little too nice.

I've avoided it.

Well, really, I've avoided everyone. Better that way.

There's space out here on the lake. Sorely needed space, I might add. The cabin is huge, roomy, bathrooms aplenty.

Thank God.

I feel more than see Xander and Willow flank me. He plops down on my right and Will on my left. She sort of semi-mirrors my position. What my position should be. What it is now. Both of her legs dangle over the edge. And so do mine. But I'm probably taking too much on faith. Xander sits with his legs tucked in and crossed in front of him.

No provocative actions so far, but we are talking about shenanigans that will produce cold, wet boobies and clingy clothing. I don't trust him. Xander is still a boy in the truest sense of the word.

I squash the snicker before it forms.

Jeans and sneakers are a standard over the past two weeks. The matching flannels, however, are not. The variation in the shirts is the ones underneath the half-buttoned-up blue plaid monstrosities. Will has a green V-neck underneath while Xander's opted for just a plain white crew neck.

I glance at Willow's fidgeting hands. They don't tell me much, except that she's nervous.

Big surprise.

Moving on. I focus on Xander instead. His hands are resting on top of his thighs. Following his arms, I look up into his eye. The lack of a plural makes me wince.

Right, apologies…

Guilt.

Regret.

His lips press together and he blinks breaking our connection.

"What's going on?" I ask, wanting to move things along. Getting this over with soon might be nice. I was looking forward to some more quality alone-time with the pretty lake and the dock and the soothing, splashy waves.

Xander shrugs and Willow huffs.

"We, uh…" she stammers, fumbling over her words in a way that I haven't heard in a long time. "I thought—well, we wanted to check on you 'cause you've—"

Directing my attention her way just shuts her off. She clams up, hangs her head, her dark red locks falling over her face. My attention equals an off switch for Willow. That's new.

My eyebrows drop, getting all bunchy instead. I ask, "And why…?"

Xander gulps and picks at a thread on the hem of his flannel. It's like he's trying to—

I've never seen Xander this cautious. If he's working up the nerve to say something, he's sure taking his time picking the words.

It's like they're trying to defuse a bomb. Since when am I bomb-like?

Okay, so…maybe since always, but—

I'm not that bad am I?

Well, it's that or they're mad. Are they mad? They could be mad.

How long can they stay mad at me?

Yeah, there's anger there. Guilt too. It's like we're sitting around a Lazy Susan heaped with endless guilt, passing it around, sharing it out.

Maybe we should just not?

"'Cause we're family," Xander says. His head rises. He looks me in the eye. "We can fight, be stupid with each other, callous even, sometimes, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't worry."

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He reaches for my leg, but stops short, hovering above my thigh for a second before he withdraws.

"You've been extra lonery, and if we sent one of the girls, they would have ended up in the lake. If we sent Dawn, there would have been screeching, so we—well, here we are," Willow whispers next to me.

I run a hand through my hair, pulling it back off my face as their words tumble around in my head. The wind shifts, bringing with it a fresh, piney scent. I close my eyes. How much anger can I hold on to?

This is about me too.

I sigh. How much should I hang on to? Should I be pissed at them for everything that's happened over the last few months?

Hell, the last few years?

"Also…" Xander's hushed voice makes me open my eyes. "…we haven't gone to a mall so you and Will can drag me from store to store in a quest for the ever-elusive 'perfect pair of shoes'."

Will slides a wrapped box, suspiciously long and shoebox shaped, onto my lap. Xander sets a cupcake on top and Will says, "So, we thought we'd bring the shoes to you and maybe some post-apocalypse snack-cakey goodness."

Her dark green eyes blink at me through her fallen locks. I swallow. The lump lodged in my throat doesn't budge.

Maybe Xander's right.

My lips purse and puff as my arms fall to my sides. I plant my hands on the aged wood beneath me and look down at the cupcake. I tilt my head to the side and blink.

There's a happy face on top drawn in yellow and green M&Ms that looks suspiciously Willowy in construction.

My eyes play mixy-matchy games with the lump in my throat, doing that annoying, 'misty,' 'weepy' thing, all stingy and bad. I manage, "I'm worried too."

"Eh?" Xander asks, bumping shoulders with me.

I try to urge a moratorium on our collective complexes by saying, "I'm sorry about Ahn—"

"I can't," he chokes out, sputtering and coughing at the sudden topic shift. This time, when he reaches out, covering my little hands with his own large, manly ones, he squeezes and whimpers, "Maybe in ten years, not now." His lone brown eye pleads with me for understanding.

I do. Shrugging it off, I pull my hand away and draw in a deep breath.

It almost feels like I could really cry. The regretful, upset, emotional-basketcase kind of crying, not the 'isn't that sweet,' Hallmark moment kind of crying. I've never had trouble with that. Gimme a copy of 'Steel Magnolias' and I'm all over that.

I'd like to—really cry that is—but I think my ducts are Duck Taped shut. Or maybe glued or crusted or, like, wilted.

Whatever they are, they won't work for that and Anya at least deserves my tears.

I clear my throat and reach for the cupcake. The cake is moist and soft under my fingertips. I rip it into thirds and hand over a piece each to my friends. Will smiles, Xander offers a lopsided grin and says, "Should've went with the Twinkie."

My mouth pinches, nose crinkling and I shake my head. "Chocolate, Xand…it's all about the chocolate."

"Hmm-hmmm," Will hums her agreement around the morsel in her mouth.

I take my piece and pop it into my mouth.

With a mouthful of cupcake, Xander tries to sing, "If I were kiiinnnnggg, of the forrrrest! Not Queen! Not Duke! Not Prince!"

From the corner of my eye, I see Will lean forward to stare at our friend. I'm sure her look of 'what the hell?' matches my own.

His mouth snaps shut and he shrugs. "It's been playing in my head since we got here. Better than the Paul Bunyan song from that cartoon."

I bob my head and let it go. It's Xander. I don't need much more of a reason to just accept and move on.

Will lays her head against my shoulder as Xander leans back, arching his back and wincing. A few of his bones crack. He rights himself. Through a sigh, he says, "I'm gonna go find Dawnie. Last I heard she was threatening to pull a 'Parent Trap,' honey and all, on Andrew." The dock creaks beneath his feet as he stands. "My work's never done."

Imagining that is a horrible, terrible, awful idea, so of course, that's right where my brain goes. Go figure, I snicker too. I really am twisted and wrong. Let's see, how can I make it worse? "Tell her there's some leftover rope lying around my room." I glance over my shoulder, wiggle my eyebrows and grin.

Yup, that was it.

I mean, not that I don't like Andrew.

Well, uhm…I don't hate him. That has to count for something. I hope.

Xander kisses the top of my head and then Willow's. "You girls behave, and if you go skinny dipping later, make sure you find me."

Will and I give a collective groan as he scampers away. Shame, Willow's swat misses him by a mile.

* * *

"You know," I say as I open the door to my suite and flip the switch for the lamp on my nightstand. "I'll admit I was going a bit Carson Kressley on you and Xand for the matching flannels, but I take it all back. I totally see the appeal now." A fresh round of shivers makes me tighten my jaw as the wind rattles the windows of my room.

We overstayed our welcome at the lake. As soon as the sun set and the wind picked up, inside became the better choice.

"It's okay," Will lets me off as she shuts the door and joins me on my wonderfully large California King bed. "It wasn't my first choice, but the town didn't have much in terms of outerwear."

I shrug. She's right. I had to go with an ill-fitting Carhartt brown corduroy jacket. Talk about lack of shape and making me look twelve in the process.

"So," I say, instead of bitching about our fashionless wardrobe, "where'd Kennedy run off to?"

Will's feet kick the end of the bed and she shrugs. "Didn't bother asking. I'm not worried about her right now."

'Kay.

I guess.

Maybe things aren't so peachy on Planet Sappho. No need for the third degree. She'll talk when she's ready…maybe.

Right now, I want to open my present.

A grin spreads over my face as I drum my fingers along the top edge of the box.

"Well, are you gonna open it or look at it all night?" Will says excitedly. She gives a little hop on the bed that bounces us both.

That's the only encouragement I need to rip off the plain, light-blue wrapping paper and open the lid. Inside is a pair of nice, knee-high, black leather boots with just the right amount of heel and a bottle of wine.

Not sure about the wine, but whatever…shoes first. My sneakers hit the floor. I pick up the right boot, slip my foot inside and zip up the side.

It's perfect.

Not too tight, not too loose.

"You did a great job, Willow," I gush and wiggle my foot for her to see.

She gives me a classic Willow smile and says, "Xander picked out some hooker boots. I don't even know why I took him."

I compliment her again, "Well, you done good," and slip the boot off. "Thank you." Replacing the boot, I heft the bottle of wine and wave it in front of her.

She produces a corkscrew from her pocket and says, "I talked Xand out of buying a vampire themed bottle." Her face scrunches causing her tongue to peek out between her lips as she shakes her head. "This one looked nifty and, oh, plus, its description at the store said it had a zest for life and it was bright and perky."

Her brows knit together. "My mom used to have a glass of wine before bed most nights. She claimed it helped her relax. I thought we could—relaxation seemed—I thought it couldn't hurt." She cracks a smile and nudges my shoulder with her own. "Some might even say we deserve it."

I shrug and look the bottle over. A picture of the Earth hangs in the background of a black sky, below it there's a gold-foiled 'Zin' and a small fire at the bottom.

I know nothing about wine. "Cool," I say and hop off the bed to go open it up at the little kitchenette in my room.

The place isn't bad. They avoided the whole 'cabin in the woods' motif—no bear skin rugs or serious rustic wear—just simple stuff that makes it more homey than hotely. Browns and reds mostly make up the color scheme and the kitchenette helps when you don't want to leave. "No wine glasses," I say as I unwrap two plastic cups. "We're going classy here." I hold the cups up for her approval.

Willow snickers. "Well, I won't tell if you don't."

"Deal," I agree and pull the cork from the bottle. It gives off a loud pop. I bring it up to eye level to inspect.

Totally weird.

How do they fit it in there to begin with?

Oh, well. I toss the cork in the sink and pour two generous cups. The bottle gets abandoned on the counter next to the sink. There's no way it's coming within five feet of my bed. I know nothing about wine, except that it leaves big, ugly purple stains on stuff. I spin back to Willow who's made herself comfortable against the pillows and headboard. She smiles and pats the spot to her right.

I slip onto the bed and snuggle up next to her. We both eye the cups in our hands before I propose a toast, "To our keen apocalypse avoidance, umm…" Not 'issue.' But 'avoidance' and 'issues,' uh…

What's the opposite of an issue? All I've got is—

"To skill," Willow fills in. "And when we can't manage that, there's pure, dumb luck."

I laugh. "I'll drink to pure, dumb luck." Our cups come together and I down my glass in one gulp. The wine is sickeningly sweet at first and then spicy. It burns the rest of the way down.

Gross. I've had tastier cough syrups.

Willow's nose is scrunched up and she's trying not to gag. Once her eyes open, she looks to me.

I shake my head. Right there with ya, Will.

Not needing to be asked, I set my empty cup on the bedside table, hop up and dump the rest of the bottle.

Guess I'll remain ignorant in the wine department.

Kind of a bummer. Always wanted to pull a 'Sideways' weekend. Without the motorcycle helmet to the schnoz, 'cause that looked 'ouch!'

Leaving the empty bottle in the sink, I turn back to the bed.

Will's already in bed. She left my side of the covers pulled back. She smiles and beckons me to join her.

I can't argue. It's not exactly warm in here.

Will wraps her arms around my middle, pulling me up to her. She doesn't talk…which is good 'cause I'm not really up for any more serious conversation. Instead, her fingers thread gently through my hair. I listen to her heartbeat.

That's all I really hear. The wind outside fades. The hum of the fridge goes away. I focus on her. Her heartbeat. Her blood flowing through her veins. It's all Willow.

It's comforting.

It's comforting in a way that so few things are anymore.

This is like being pulled into a treasured memory. We used to do this in high school. We'd lay and cuddle and just—we'd be us. We took care of each other back then in a way that doesn't happen much now. There's too much hurt under the bridge. We've lost touch. But back then, when Will would get needy, I'd sense it and this would happen, and other times, she'd do the same for me. She'd just let me be. Like now.

These types of moments have been so few and far between. Fact is, that in terms of the number of people I've had this with, there've only been a few.

Angel—even without the heartbeat—being wrapped in his arms was as intimate as I've ever been.

Sex not factored.

There's a difference. Intimacy and sex, or even snuggling-up, are different animals.

I was never just that relaxed with Riley or with Spike. Never, except once. Spike and I found this once right before the end. We sort of ran the pool of naughtiness dry—well, not 'dry,' but having pretty much done everything two people can do, we arrived at this.

Will and I just had this. We got here and there wasn't any need to go anywhere else. She's the only person I've been able to just be with and be intimate with without the expectation of something more.

Why am I just now noticing?

No clue.

I just know it feels nice.

Nicer than I've felt in longer than I care to remember. That's a pretty sweet revelation.

"This is nice," I hum and break the silence. Not sure on the 'why' for that either. I just—I wanted her to know.

Her finger slips under my chin, tilting my head up. I blink and barely have time to register her lips pressing against mine.

Their heat carries a jolt of energy. I react by holding her tighter.

Somehow, I end up on my back, and when I open my eyes, Willow's looking down at me.

She's exposed. More naked than actual nudity. The look on her face is like—

Like Angel. The looks he gave me sometimes. It was like I was the missing piece to complete his puzzle.

My heart's all a flutter. Poor little thing.

I'm warm and happy. And who needs blankets?

Her leg swings over me. She settles low on my hips as we connect again.

I gasp and her tongue slips inside, gliding over my own. They dance together. My hands gather the back of her shirt and squeeze.

The whole firework metaphor seriously lacks. She sucks on my lower lip, teasing it with her teeth. Pretty lights and explosions don't even come close.

Her mouth moves, breaking away from mine, gasping. Her lips glide up briefly and then down my right cheekbone to nip at the shell of my ear. Her tongue licks out. I hear, "May I?"

I nod. Forming words—stringing them together into coherent thoughts—not so much. Not going so well. Pretty much overrated anyhow. Uh…

Her hands slip underneath my thermals. Way overrated. She motions me up and pulls it over my head in one fluid motion. Her head lowers and I close my eyes, just feeling, letting myself relax. Who needs wine? My hands fall limply at my sides.

The distinction of lips and teeth and tongue blur. I only feel her.

I should be wigged.

I should stop this.

I don't.

I can't.

She works her way down, slipping my bra straps over my shoulders and releasing the clasp at my back. The move would probably make Fabio look like an amateur.

And with the words—and the stringing them together—

The bra goes in the same general direction as my shirt, dropped carelessly over the side of my bed as her attention shifts. She goes for my right nipple. Lips—soft and smooth—cover it. And wetness. And warmness.

And…

She rolls my left nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Pulling on it just enough.

Groaning, my hips arch. I crash into her and break—

"Relax," she coos, looking up at me, exposing a whole new Willow that makes me weak.

She's always been pretty, beautiful on most days, but with her lips slightly swollen and moist, her skin ruddy and her kind of breathless…she's nothing short of stunning.

"Please," she says, "just let me take care of you for once?"

I reach up and cup her cheek, smoothing my thumb over her skin.

Always have a hard time saying no to her.

Actually, I suck at it.

She turns in to the touch. Playfully, she nips the pad of my thumb before returning her attention to my chest.

Heat builds in the wake of her touch. She winds her way down my chest and tummy, stopping to pay more attention to certain spots when I gasp or shudder. She's attentive. Totally tuned in to me.

More than I thought someone could be.

Her hands explore along my sides, teasing me. She pays extra special attention to the raised pink scar.

Thank you, stupid, ugly Toucan Sam.

Eventually, she moves on. Reaching the waistband of my jeans, she snaps them open and works the zipper down, slowly revealing simple pink satin. She nuzzles the skin right above. My breath hitches.

She sits up just a bit—just enough to peel back my jeans. Barely tugging them past my hips, she leans down and nuzzles me through my panties. Her breath bleeds through the fabric, hot and wet against sensitive skin.

My eyes drift shut, cool air hits my legs and the pulsing, needy flesh between them.

I don't think I've ever been this wet.

Turned on?

Yes.

Horny?

Yes. Hopelessly.

Feeling like my entire body is wired directly to my clit?

Not before now.

She slides back up my legs. Just as naked as I am. No more icky flannel. Her smooth skin feels amazing against mine. That twitchy, archy thing my back is doing stops. I hit the bed. Her hair tickles my legs. More twitches.

Who knew _that _sensation could be…that it could feel so damn good?

She peppers kisses along my inner thighs, slowly spreading them open.

I watch as her head dips and she plants a kiss at the top of my center, fondles the trimmed, wiry, curls there. My legs, just like the rest of me, have been kind of doing their own thing. They must like her thing, 'cause they fall completely open and she settles between them.

Her hands drift down and cup my bottom, raising me up. I bend my parted knees to help with leverage. In thanks, her thumbs sweep up and spread me open. Our combined heat mingles sending a small tremor through my frame.

She hasn't touched anything remotely near the parts that _really _make me gooey and spastic, but I'm right there, hanging on the edge anyhow. Teetering on the brink and I can't—

I don't want to cum yet 'cause that'll mean ending this…whatever this is, and…

The thought makes my heart stutter.

"You're beautiful, Buffy," she whispers. "Beautiful and perfect and amazing." Her voice is thick, insistent and…

My hips twitch upwards, deeper.

Will's sexy voice is just...

I gather fistfuls of sheet.

She hovers, breathing me in, staring at me, studying me…

Her lips brush against the inside of my thigh, high up and nowhere near where I want her mouth, but she's not budging. Well, there's some budging. She teases me, offering a playful nip in response to my jutting hips.

I finally crack under her scrutiny and beg, "Willow, please."

She nuzzles my center with her cheek and sighs. "I should have known that your impatience would've carried over to making love." Her breath drifts, hot and steamy over my thigh.

Is that what we're doing…?

I haven't done that in…

Once, really.

Her eyes appear from between my legs and I know she's smiling. "Relax, Buffy," she kisses my left hip and then...

Her tongue takes one firm drag downwards, from top to bottom.

My thighs tremble.

She doesn't stop there. Oh, no, she dives in. Earnestly, even. Swirling around my opening. Will licks and sucks with just as much enthusiasm as she takes on most things. This time, though, she's also…_tender_. As much as I hate that word…

She is though. She uses her mouth to tell me how much I mean to her.

Swirls and figure eights, firm licks and blunt strokes push me further along the edge to the loss of self-control. Just when it starts to get good—she's actually beginning to paying attention to the really achy, throbby parts—she stops…and—well, 'whoosh,' 'boom.'

Whaaa!

I almost tear my own hair out. No clue how my fingers ended up all combed through—uh, yeah, but it's a really bad idea. I release my hair 'cause 'ouch.'

Her attention shifts stroking down one side and up another, reigning me back in. My head falls back against the pillows. My back bows…and there's a whole lotta shaking going on.

Great. Now I've got a stupid fifties song stuck in my head.

I croak, "Will, please." I'm begging you. Man, I sound awful.

She sweetly surrenders. One of her hands moves and two fingers slip inside briefly stroking me. Well, sort of. It's nice, but—

Not quite.

Still.

She knows this.

I know she knows this.

She's teasing me. Causing me to see spots.

Her lips find my clit and—

Oh God.

My legs lock.

Her left hand comes up, finds my right and she holds on, threading our fingers together, connecting us in another way.

I rock down into her eager mouth and hand. Her tongue swirls against me. She backs off when the touch is too much.

Then she finds it…finds the perfect amount of pressure right before—

I—

Quake and shudder, muscles strain.

All the delicious, exquisite, agonizing tension…

It explodes inside of me.

I cry out.

When my eyes finally manage to do what I want them to—I want them to flutter open—Will's hovering above me. She swipes at my cheeks, removing the…

Tears?

I guess.

Wow.

That's never, uh…

She kisses my cheek and whispers, "You okay?" Her voice is so sweet.

I nod.

I think.

I guess I am.

That was…

The right side of her lips quirk up and she nips my chin. "Good. I need more." She doesn't wait this time. Her hand snakes down and begins with the fondling.

Oh, God.

My eyes slam shut against the sensation. How can she even…?

It seems sorta unfair though, I should—

Her fingertip teases my center, slipping inside and then back out.

I should do something. Something that's…else. Something besides lay here and pant.

I want to make her feel—

No, I _need_to make her feel good too.

If I'm going to go through with this—and obviously, with the current—then it's a go, I need to be an active participant.

Her lips glide over me, brushing against my cheek. I blink and focus on her.

Her words echo back, 'making love.' Is that what this is?

The tightness in my chest…?

Can I—?

Sex is easy.

I know I can do that.

The way she's looking at me. I don't even know if I—

Her weight settles on top of me, pressing me against the pillowy mattress. It's the opposite of suffocating.

I lean up and bring our lips together, part hers open and run my tongue along the edge of her teeth. It elicits a moan from her and a groan from me.

I can do this.

I _want to_is more the point.

My hands let go of the sheets and cup her bottom. I pull her down harder, grind my center against her. Her knees were supporting her weight. Not now. They buckle.

Leaning back because 'air,' it's a necessity, we rest our foreheads together, letting our hips move against each other, finding a rhythm that causes Willow's breath to hitch.

Every muscle in her body is tensed, coiled, begging for release.

I want to give that to her.

"Will," I murmur, "together—can we?"

She nods against me and manages to find my hand, detach it from her bottom and press it between her legs.

I—

"Oh, God." I gulp. "You feel amazing."

I've never… My mind reels.

I find her clit and rub around it, mirroring her actions between my legs.

She's _so _wet. Soft, supple, silky…

None of the words that rattle though my brain accurately describes how amazingly, powerfully, fantastically awesome it feels to touch her like this.

I lean forward, sealing us together, letting her tongue slip into my mouth this time. Giving her the control she seeks.

Her breaths grow shorter, more rapid.

We're close.

Her mouth breaks away. She rests her head in the crook of my neck. Her fingers press harder. She whispers, "I love you, Buffy."

Holy God.

The pressure and need to cum become too much to resist and I tumble.

Again.

Jerky and taut, I feel her come undone with me, flooding my hand.

We spasm and I keep it together just enough to draw her orgasm out, toying with her clit between slippery fingers and sensitive flesh.

Our bodies fall still together. She collapses, sinking into me. My hand falls, limp and useless.

I'm pretty limp and useless.

The beat of her heart jackrabbits, then ebbs to a sluggish thrum against my chest.

She curls against me. I muster enough strength to pull a blanket over us and wrap my arms around her, lacing my fingers together against the small of her back.

Completely content with our positions, I mumble, "Love you too, Will." Anything else we need to say can wait.

That's what's most important.

A soft peck against my neck is the only confirmation she gives. She heard me.

That's good.

* * *

Hmmm…

It's definitely one of those mornings where…

Everything's warm, soft and perfect. The sun's shiny and being helpful, streaming through the windows, falling just about perfectly, just enough to warm, but not so much to be uncomfortable and annoying.

And snuggly.

I haven't even opened my eyes yet, but it's amazing.

Wrapped up in…

Uh, what?

My eyes snap open.

And hello!

Boobs!

There are boobs.

I'm pressed against someone with boobs.

They're in front of me and naked.

Like really, really, extra, super-duper, no clothing covering, boobs.

Okay, I'm not going to panic. I'm not going to freak out and—

And…

I'm just not.

I—

Maybe I can sneak away before—

Before what…?

They wake up and want seconds?

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

I tilt my head up and stave off hyperventilation for all of two seconds.

It's Willow!

Willow's naked.

Those are Willow boobs.

Boobs of Willow!

We're all naked. Pressed front to front and—I shift enough to realize I'm just a tad bit sore.

Tender. And in the good way. In the 'I got my world rocked' way that should never accompany a night with Willow.

My best friend.

My best _lesbian _friend.

Breathe, Buffy. Just breathe and try not to wig.

But if there was ever a time to wig…

It would totally be now.

And it—that—the wigging—or any wiggage—it'd be totally justifiable.

I clamp my eyes shut. My teeth grind together.

Ick!

Okay, so, _plan_?

Could use one of those.

First thing: sneak away without waking her up.

Gently, I slip from her arms and stuff a pillow in my place. It works as Will gathers that in her arms instead of me and snuggles. I slide off the bed and take a moment to look.

It's cute. I'll admit that. Totally adorable Willow. All snuggly.

Okay, next up: clothes. Focus. Clothes would be swell right about now.

Where?

I look around and can't find—

Rounding my bed, I see them. Piled accusingly. The kind of pile that suggests haphazardness resulting from—

I'm a bad, bad person. I'm a stereotype. I had sexy, naughty fun with my best lesbian friend. I'm a cliché. I experimented. I had experimental naughtiness with—

I bend down to move my jeans and panties! My panties were kind of inside my jeans, half hanging out like both things were treated as one thing when they were peeled off me.

This is bad.

Panties are good. I put my panties on. I can do this. I've done this thousands and thousands of times.

Well, not exactly this. I used my best friend to satisfy some secret, repressed curiosity and I—

Bra!

My bra's underneath my jeans, between my jeans and my shirt.

Yup this is bad. This is bad, bad. The biggest bad is the great big gaping hole in my memory. I can't even remember it. So not only am I bad and a cliché, I'm stupid. I'm a stupid, stupid girl.

A stupid girl who's putting on her bra.

Plan. I had a plan. I need to follow the plan.

Second thing: make a clean getaway and deny everything.

I was out all night. Umm…

I was out all night patrolling. I was slaying Quaker vampires. That's why I was out.

So, okay, check: clothes. I find my shirt and start to slip it over my head when my door starts to rattle and—

Whoever it is has the crappiest timing ever.

"Buffy!"

Shit! That's Kennedy! Shit! Shit! Shit. And of course she's shouting.

I scramble for my pants and look at the bed.

Will's waking up and Kennedy—

I'm going to kill her!

Kennedy, not Willow. Though, I dunno—there could be ample killing for everyone if she doesn't stop—

"Buffy! Open up!" she hollers from the other side of the door. "I can't find Willow."

More rattling and banging and badness.

Of course. So much for Quaker vampires.

The door frame makes a loud crack and a bunch of little pops.

I stop, one leg in my jeans and one leg out, horrified.

I know the sound of splintering wood.

Kennedy tumbles into my room, door knob still in her hand. The door's still kind of on its hinges.

My door?

What door?

Uh-boy. She looks happy.

All kinds of _not_. Not happy. Not even close.

"Willow!" she screeches as her girlfriend—her very, very naked, in my bed—_girlfriend_, sits up and rubs the sleep from her eyes.

Will replies, "Kenn?" Her voice thick from sleep. She does have the sense to cover up with the pillow I left her.

Kennedy's narrowed, evil, pissed off, gaze sweeps to me in my half-naked state to her back to her completely naked girlfriend and—

Yup.

Drama.

"I can't believe you!" she yells. "I knew it! All that 'we're just friends' bullshit! I can't fucking believe this!" The door knob gets abandoned, thrown to the floor as she picks up steam.

I put my pants on. I mean really? Let's talk 'sane things.' The sane thing for me to do hasn't changed. Getting dressed now before the riot breaks out.

And I even manage to pull that off just in time for round one.

She turns on me and swings.

"Whoa!" I say, ducking the sloppy punch.

She comes after me again…and she's not dilly-dallying around. She even goes through the whole raging death threats thing I've heard a million times. "I'm gonna kill you!" Never over a naked girlfriend in my bed. That part's new, but honestly, she sounds like Harmony. All she needs to do is tack a 'slayer' on there and—yeah, totally Harmony.

I block or otherwise avoid a few sloppy punches and kicks. This is getting tedious. I sigh.

It'd be nice if we could drop the drama long enough to figure out 'how' and 'why' this happened. There's got to be a perfectly reasonable or totally irrational reason. I'd settle for either right now.

Willow shouts, "Stop!" finally doing something besides waking up.

The air thickens around us and I clue up. The reason Kenn isn't still feebly trying to kick my ass is we've both been Willowed.

Kenn doesn't take it well. "Let me go you, you stupid, lying bitch!" Yeah, she's in total seethe-mode—with the pointless struggling and pointless—well, pointless _everything_. We're not going anywhere until—

God, her timing stinks. I was leaving. I was going to be somewhere not here.

I was leaving Willow alone and naked in my bed. I was running away. As plans go, that one needed work.

Uh…

'Stupid'? Really? Since when? Willow's like the anti of stupid. And 'lying'? Not usually. She gets angsty over the teeny white ones. But the real shocker is 'bitch'? That just tips the scales.

That was uncalled for. I shout, "Call her a 'bitch' again and I'll show you what that word actually means."

"Hey!" Willow yells. She wraps my sheet around her and stands. "What? How? When?"

I look at Willow. Like really look at her for the first time. Her confusion is painful. She's as screwed up as I am.

"Buffy?" Will asks this time quietly.

I swallow.

I shrug.

I don't know.

Our eyes follow the same path to the visibly empty bottle of wine. It can't be. I've been drunk and—

Did we really get that drunk? I really didn't think—

Were we **_that _**drunk?

Maybe. I don't remember.

"You know what?" Kennedy hisses. "Just let me go. You want the cheating slut, you can have her." Her posture relaxes as the air normals up. She storms out.

Good riddance to bad—

I could kill her. She's—

She's the deadest, dumbest, most braindead—

My shoulders sag. The truth hurts. She's right.

I should feel bad, even if I can't remember. I'm—

I got drunk and had sex with my best friend last night. My brain's numb. And my life…?

I've sunk to a new low. My life's now the stuff of bad sitcoms. How am I supposed to react to this?

I manage a feeble, "Will?"

She doesn't answer.

I could start by brushing my teeth, but—

I lick them with my tongue. They're just not that bad.

So I start 'reacting' by curling up in a ball on my bed. A solid sulk seems like a reasonable response. Thighs to chest, head in hands, 'ball' and much sulking.

The bed sinks as Willow plops down next to me.

Through splayed fingers, I mutter, "And a normal 'morning after' would be way too much to ask because—?" Is there normal? I don't remember much normal.

Because normal just wouldn't be us.

* * *

**Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: **.../s/8156788/7/The_Rivers_Daughter**  
**


	8. The Two Body Problem

**Summary:** The events of Hesperus in Retrograde weren't quite memorable.

**Prompt** #288: Hercules tamingthemuse & #001 Nibble kinda_gay.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 3,028.

**Author:** Valyssia.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**The Two-Body Problem********  
**by Valyssia

* * *

Stage fright.

There's nothing worse than that pasty-mouthed, 'why am I here?' 'what am I s'posed to do?' 'I'm s'posed to say something,' quivering, quaking, 'I want to run, but my feet are made of lead and my blood's been replaced with ice water,' feeling. Except maybe someone walking in when I'm on the potty. That's worse 'cause then it's not just me.

Or really, really worse, I walk in on them. Then it's my fault. My clumsiness has put _someone else _in the spotlight. The ice water in my veins heats up. My face flushes. I can't turn away, can't talk, can't run…frozen. Not quite like a deer, 'cause deer don't get embarrassed. Seconds pass that feel like hours before I find the strength to close the door.

That's how I feel right now.

There's a chunk of ice where my belly should be. I need to get up, grab my clothes and skedaddle to the bathroom. Instead, I sit here frozen, but not freezing, not ten feet from the nearly doorless doorway, naked as the day I was born, but a whole lot more grownup. Hot and clammy.

It happens.

In the absence of a door, daylight pours into the room, pooling on the carpet. I'm not sure if it's still a doorway with only half a door. More like a rectangular hole through which anyone might enter at any time. Shouts and laughter drift in through the hole. It's a lovely day, so of course the girls are out in force. Playing, goofing off and having fun. Or at least it sounds like they're having fun.

I'm not.

I'm waiting to be dished up as the next juicy piece of gossip. Teenage girls get bored. I'm doing my part to keep them entertained. By noon, or sooner, they'll all be talking about how Kennedy caught me accosting Buffy, or something like that that's not really right, but not so wrong it's a complete fabrication.

Not that I remember the accosting or even who accosted who. I remember coming back here. I remember that Buffy liked her boots. I was happy. From there, all that's left is a big ol' zilcho, zip, nada, nothing-sized gap. A hole like the door.

But that doesn't matter. Any blanks I have will get filled in. The story will grow just that much more fantastic with every retelling. By dinnertime—

I'm going to be somewhere else by dinnertime. Anywhere. Not here. Somewhere far, far away from here.

I move my legs. My legs actually move. They move! That's new. I even manage to stand without falling. I move! I don't stop moving until I'm almost to the bathroom, then I turn around. I forgot my clothes. I need my clothes. I double back around the bed to get my clothes. My clothes are all over. I stoop to collect my _scattered_ clothes.

Buffy doesn't move. I streak past her—a little too literally for comfort—and she just lays there curled up on the corner of the bed. Her back's to the door—the mostly doorless doorway. I think that was Kennedy. She destroyed the door. I just don't understand why.

I shut the door—the other door—the bathroom door. I'm—

It's dark in here. I fumble around until I find the switch. Light wasn't the best idea. I get that when I see my reflection in the mirror. I look, umm…_eww_.

Uh…

I mean, I know _why_. I get _why_ Kenn threw a tizzy. Jealousy isn't that hard to figure out. I'm practically an expert on the subject. And betrayal—I know _way_ too much about that too. More than I want to know. I just don't get _how_.

How would she know to find me here? She'd have to know to break the door like that. She'd have to be sure. Most people knock when they aren't sure.

Did someone see Buffy and me together last night? Did they tell Kennedy? They had to've. That's the only thing that makes sense. Who did we see last night?

Not naked would be better. I set my clothes on the vanity and grab the first frilly thing I find: my bra. Putting my bra on now.

Xander's the only one who comes to mind. But he wouldn't tell. Would he?

He might. How would he know not to? He wouldn't know that we—

We what? We had a naked sleepover? Naked sleepovers happen, right?

In those videos they have at truck stops.

Oh, and on the Internet. Can't forget about the Internet.

So my life has deteriorated to the stuff of pervy boy fantasy? That's comforting.

At least I assume Buffy was naked. She isn't naked now. Was I the only one who was naked?

That's worse.

My panties. I find my panties. They're tucked inside my jeans. I pull them out and put—

A thud comes from the other side of the door. I almost land on my tush. My leg—the one that's up—what with me putting my panties on—it wants to be down. I want both feet on the ground. My foot snags. I grab for the counter and don't—

My hair falls in my face. Between the gasp and the—

I wasn't the only one who was naked. I smell like her. Or I guess this is how she smells. I assume. Anyway, I smell like sex. Sex I don't remember. That's disturbing. I _really_ need a shower, but without a change of clothes, what's the point? All of my clothes are in my room—the room I share with Kennedy.

More banging accompanies me as I bend down to untangle my foot from my panties and pull them up. Sounds like Buffy's as impressed by the doorlessness as I was. Only she's way more proactive about it. She could be chopping the tree down to make another door and it wouldn't be half as loud.

Maybe it wasn't Buffy. I might be jumping to conclusions. I could've been with someone else, right?

Okay, maybe but how would I have ended up in _her _bed? Wouldn't someone else's bed have made more sense?

My evil, twisted, naughty little brain runs the gamut of voyeurism, threesomes and other elicit machinations that might lead to me waking up naked in Buffy's bed. That might've been the idea worst idea ever. This was complicated before. Add that and—

I give up.

Putting on my jeans now. I pick them up and shake them out. First one leg, then the other, I pull them up and fasten.

It's not fair. This is like everything I never wanted. No wonder I'm desperate for it not to be true. I sort of hoped—

Buffy turns the TV on and for a brief moment 'annoying, pushy announcer voice' blares from the other room.

I'm all flinched out. I sigh instead. I _really hoped_—not that I had much hope. Wishing for things that will make my life that much weirder isn't something I typically do.

This was different. There were times when I did think about her. Never much more than in passing. I couldn't help it. She'd look at me and smile and I'd feel all warm and mushy inside. I thought this could be special. The start of something wonderful. _Memorable. _

This is like the opposite of memorable, whatever that is. It's not 'forgettable.' That'd normally be the answer, but I won't be forgetting the forgetting anytime soon.

I pick up my shirt. I need to finish up. I'm almost done. When I pull my shirt over my head, I get another, unneeded reminder. I still smell like her.

My tummy feels icky. The blank spot and question mark are nothing new. This feels all too familiar in an unsettling way. Déjà vu. The past is repeating, but this is no charming walk down memory lane. It's like someone's serving up a heaping helping of my own medicine: Lethe's Bramble.

But who would do that? I wouldn't. I mean, I couldn't. I _know_ better. I haven't done any magic since—

Oh! My heart drops like a rock, taking me long with it. I haven't done any magic since five minutes ago. Dammit. I promised myself I'd never do that again. All I wanted was to make them stop. That's not that bad is it? Kenn was so angry. I needed to stop them. And I could've stood up like a normal person and physically intervened. Instead I resorted to magic. I used magic against someone who was just defending herself. I—

I stare at my stupid flannel. That's all that's left. I don't want the silly thing. Buffy's right, it's ugly. I put it on just because. The less naked I am right now, the better. It's a little warm, so I roll up the sleeves and pick up her brush. I hope she doesn't mind me using it.

So who else would do that?

Who could?

Giles could. And maybe Dawn. I can't think of another single soul that we know who would have the ability to do magic that advanced. That spell's actually a little over Dawn's head, but she might get lucky if she really put her mind to it. That's the thing about Dawn. Her determination's a wee bit unnerving.

I stop brushing long enough to turn on the sink. The water needs to heat up before I wash my face.

But why would she? There'd have to be a reason. What would cause Dawn to do that?

Or Giles, for that matter? He's like Mr. Responsible when it comes to magic. He'd never do that. Not unless the memory was hurtful to the person and there were no other alternatives.

Why would they they leave us in bed together if that was the case? That was actually more hurtful than—

Was this malicious? I don't want to believe that, but what else is there? Considering our track record, the idea just isn't that farfetched. But who would want to do that to us? I mean, who else besides every demon on the planet?

But even that doesn't fit. This is just too personal. You'd think that if they wanted to hurt us a demon would try a more direct approach.

Am I missing something? Umm…

Probably, but nothing comes to mind. There has to be someone else—someone who's capable of doing this—someone who wants to hurt Buffy or me.

Steam rises from the sink. I set the brush down, pick up a hair tie and put my hair in a ponytail. A nice warm washcloth will feel good. I take one from the stack and place it in the basin to soak. It's so hot when I pick it up that wringing it out is a joy. A little soap and umm…my chin's tender. That happens. I should've done this before bed. I pat my face dry. Buffy has some moisturizer sitting on the vanity with her makeup. I borrow a little. Not that I intend to give it back, but—uh…

Much better. I don't have a toothbrush here, so mouthwash will have to do for now.

Maybe Giles will have some ideas. We need to find him. Explaining's going to be fun. The idea makes my skin crawl, but it has to happen. We need to figure this out.

She's lying on her tummy, flipping through the cable guide when I leave the bathroom. Her casual posture doesn't fool me for a minute. She's been busy. The bed's made and she blocked the door with a wardrobe that was on the other side of the room. That explains the banging. I wonder if she knocked out the back panel. We could pretend we're going to Narnia when we leave. That'd be fun…for like ten seconds.

I walk around the bed to sit on the floor at the end between her and the television. "We need to talk."

She leans to the side to try and peek around me. "Or…" she says, pressing a button on the remote. "There's a Hercules marathon on Sci-fi."

I let out a sigh—a sigh that turns to a groan and a grumble, "_Buffy_." Funny, I sound like I'm at my wit's end and we're just getting started. My wits could use more end.

She's amused, but that doesn't last. She switches off the TV, rises to her hands and knees, turns and stretches to put the remote on the nightstand. As she turns and comes to rest lying across the foot of the bed, she says, "We should just forget it, Will. It was a mistake." She props her head up with her hand.

No. No way are you getting by with that, Missy. Not gonna happen. I pull my left index finger down with my right, ticking off a point. "First off," I say, "you made me sit through When Harry Met Sally too times for that line to work on me." I trap my middle finger too as I move on to the next point. "Secondly, it seems to me we already have." A beat passes, and reacting to her cluelessness, I add, "_Forgotten _that is." Her expression remains inscrutable. "That doesn't bother you? 'Cause it bothers me. I need to know why."

"What's to know?" she says with a vague over-the-shoulder, pointy gesture. "We got drunk. It happens." The apathy in her voice translates to a shrug that's so halfhearted it only makes it to her hands. "Or so I hear. It's a first for me, but—"

I sit up on my knees and look. I think she meant the kitchenette. Yeah, there's an empty wine bottle in the sink. That hadn't even occurred to me. I did bring wine. An empty plastic cup sits on her nightstand and a half full one on mine…or what would've been _mine _last night. I woke up on that side of the bed.

So she thinks this was an alcohol-induced oops? A night of drunken debauchery. The possibility leaves me cold.

"No, I'm sorry," I reply. "I can't believe this happened on a whim. I don't think that either one of us would be that careless. It wouldn't matter how drunk we got. What we have is just too complicated to throw caution to the wind." And _fragile_. But I leave that out because neither one of us needs the reminder. We've been walking on pins and needles around each other for too long.

Her brow furrows. She opens her mouth, just a little, like she wants to say something.

I stop to give her room to do that, but she just takes a breath. That's it. So after a moment or two, I pick up my thought, "You mean too much to me. I wouldn't do that." She nibbles at her lip as I get carried away. Her nervousness rubs off. "There has to be another answer and I need to find it because _I_ want to remember. I need to. I care too much not to. I need to think that if this happened—and it certainly seems like it did—it came from someplace deeper—something beautiful. I have to believe that there was something else." I wish I knew what she was thinking. "Forgetting that just seems wrong."

All that and she didn't move a muscle. The only thing that changed was that she quit nibbling, which is good 'cause it dries out your lips.

I haven't changed much either. I'm still a mess. The niggling feeling hasn't gone away. That's one of the things the sisters in Westbury stressed: ignoring my instincts is bad. I knew that, but hearing it over-and-over from them finally made it sink in.

They were right. I'd just been doing so much for so long and all of it scared me. Everything I did felt weird. Ignoring that became second nature. I think this is magical. It feels too funny not to be.

Besides, it seems to me that drunkenness has symptoms. I don't feel yucky, other than the obvious. At the very least you'd think there'd be a sour aftertaste. That's an awful lot of wine. Not that I can taste anything now. I killed the evidence with minty freshness. Did I taste anything nasty when I woke up?

I don't think so. Just the usual morning breath. I force a little air down my throat, swallow and burp. A little one. Anything else would be rude. Still, I say, "Excuse me." I can't do that and not. Even for the sake of science, or deduction, or whatever this is. I can't tell. All I taste is mint. That's it.

"Do me a favor?"

"What?"

I grin. This is might be the strangest thing I've ever asked her to do, and that's really saying something. "Burp," l reply, "I know it sounds weird, but just indulge me. Please?"

She gives me a look. I start to think she won't, but then she does. Same story. Same "Excuse me." It's hopelessly cute.

"Do you taste anything funny?"

"No."

I get up to get my cup and have a sip. My stomach rolls. I want to spit it back, but I don't. The mouthwash really doesn't help. This is the most awful, vile, nasty, stuff I've ever tasted. It's like fermented grape jelly. I screw up my face up to stop the cringe and take the cup to her. I hate to do this, but—

"Here, try this."

I feel awful when she does. Awful and amused, which makes me feel even more awful. But the look on her face is just too funny. I wish I had a camera. Before she's done grimacing, I ask, "Can you see us drinking that?"

She tenses up to stop the shuddering. "Okay, point taken," she admits.

About the only thing this stuff might be good for is staining the carpet. "So?" she says as I go to head that off before it happens.

So, I don't know. So, we figure it out. So, I stall by dumping my cup and clearing away the trash. "_So_."

* * *

**Also published at Whedonist's FanFiction [dot] Net page: **.../s/8156788/8/The_Rivers_Daughter**  
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